


Two Pups and a Bastard

by Twist_Shimmy



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-13 07:18:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 29
Words: 146,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18464128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twist_Shimmy/pseuds/Twist_Shimmy
Summary: Evelyn Cousland has a rapidly lengthening list of problems: her family was brutally murdered in their own home; the Grey Warden order she (mostly) willingly joined was wiped out the day she was inducted; and worst, a madman has declared her and the only other surviving Warden traitors. Thankfully, Evie was raised to lead and to fight, and she's determined to solve all her problems-- either through diplomacy, or with a quick stab from one of her knives.Join her, brothers and sisters, to see her list of problems get solved... and to witness the many mistakes she makes along the way. (Nobody said growing as a person would be easy.)Complete and being posted in stages as chapters receive their final edit. Originally posted on Livejournal back in the day, but added here to keep all my fic in one place.





	1. Seizing Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is AO.

Arl Howe has gotten older. So has Father, I suppose, but he still has an aura of strength despite the grey of his hair. The arl appears more likely to serve as a _meal_ for the darkspawn than their executioner, and based upon the tense set of his shoulders and the clipped way in which he responds to Father's jokes, his opinion is in line with mine.

"Oh, pup! I didn't see you there." Father beckons me over, and I obey. There's a warning in the lines around his eyes that I'm to be polite and not dive right into the matter at hand as is my usual practice. We have guests, visitors, and he expects me to follow proper protocol.

Very well. I put on the smile I normally reserve for Mother's idiot potential suitors and steel myself for wasted minutes when I could be practicing. I had been working on knife thrusts before being summoned, and so am in armor rather than a gown and smell vaguely of dead cow, but that appears to do nothing to lessen the charms of my smile.

"She's become quite a lovely young woman," the arl says to Father, as though I'm not standing directly beside him, and I force my smile not to falter as he adds, "Perhaps Thomas should come along on my next visit!"

Yes, Thomas. The boy who still needs his Nan to wipe his nose, and is only now learning how to play chess. By the time I'm an old maid, he'll just begin realizing that women have curves. "To what end?" I ask, and ignore the vice-like grip of my father's arm around my waist. He jokes about me never listening to him, which is code that I'm to do as he says and play the obedient daughter for as long as the arl is in sight.

Fine.

"What was I summoned for, Father?" I ask, and he motions for the guard to let in a third man, with dark hair and an olive skin tone. At first I think that he's another suitor, but as he draws closer I realize that he's nearly Father's age. Not unattractive, but also not someone they would have in mind to try to shift me off upon. His armor is heavy, and fine, and shows signs of combat. I'm suddenly jealous of this man.

"Pup, you remember what your tutor Aldous has said about the Grey Wardens, yes?"

I nod, and spit back some vague fact as I examine the man before me. Everything about him speaks of strength, from the size of his weapons to the breadth of his shoulders to the set of his features. This man has been a warrior for his entire life. His name is Duncan, and I'm not surprised to learn that he's a senior Warden himself. The arl appears upset that the Warden has arrived unannounced, but Father shrugs his displeasure off as always and explains that Duncan is here looking for more recruits. With his eye on Ser Gilmore, which is vexing. I would hate to lose my best sparring partner to the Blight, if it really is upon us again. I'd much rather help fight, actually.

It's as though Duncan can read my thoughts. "If I may say, your daughter would be an excellent candidate, as well." His voice is low and rich.

My smile turns genuine quite against my will, and I turn it on the Warden, who seems surprised. "I would be honored to become a Grey Warden."

Father steps in front of me as though I'm six again and he's sheltering me from an overenthusiastic mabari during a visit to the kennels. The son is going to war, but the daughter is not, he snarls. The daughter is to mind the castle and see to it that "Duncan has all that he requires" during his stay.

I consider nitpicking the phrasing of his order, but decide that based on the tense shoulders of the three men that now is not the time for glibness. Frustration, however, is fair game: the Cousland women are not known for avoiding battles. "Very well. I shall stay behind and allow my family to protect my people without me."

"You must see to your mother," he sighs.

"Tell her that yourself, Father, and see if you leave for battle unbruised."

The corners of Duncan's mouth might have twitched slightly, but Father is not amused. "Pup, go find your brother and tell him to lead our troops ahead without me tonight."

"I am not done speaking with the Grey Warden!"

"I will be some days in your home," Duncan demurs. "We shall speak tomorrow afternoon, once Ser Gilmore has finished his testing." He turns to leave the hall as Father and Arl Howe resume discussing their travel plans for tomorrow.

"Ser Duncan," I call, adopting the voice my mother taught me to use on the elves to ensure that they understood an order was important. "While I may not be as important as Ser Gilmore, I am in charge of this household in my father's absence. You _will_ converse with me before tomorrow afternoon, or else I will have no way of ensuring that you receive 'all that you require.'"

Father shakes his head and pinches at the bridge of his nose, but I keep my eyes pinned on Duncan. To my relief, he turns and faces me again. "Very well, my lady," he bows. "Seek me out tonight, and I shall be at your disposal."

"Thank you, Warden." I turn to find my brother, and pretend not to hear my father as I stride for the doors.

"You'll have to excuse her, Duncan. She takes after her mother. I hope she won't try your patience too greatly during your stay in our home."

"Indeed not, Teyrn Cousland. I enjoy conversing with a curious mind," is his reply, and I step out of the main hall smiling smugly.

A mistake, for I almost run into Ser Gilmore's chest-piece in distraction. He catches me by the upper arms and growls, "There you are! I've been looking all over for you."

I pull myself away and frown up at him. "An excellent greeting, Ser Gilmore, I must say."

He looks suddenly awkward. "Apologies, my lady, but your hound has gotten into the larder again, and your Nan is threatening to leave. Again. But he snarls at any of the servants who try to get him out of there. You know how he is."

I sigh. "I need to find my brother. Father's orders, and Absolon will not hurt anyone, you know."

"But allow me to accompany you, just in case, and we can go to the larder together before you return to your errand." When I sigh again, he adds, "Your mother insists."

"Nan is just overreacting," I sulk. "Mother should know that by now."

"Tell her that yourself," he retorts, and falls into step behind me.

It should have been a short errand, but because I'm already annoyed the Maker decides to add a swarm of giant rats into the mix, so my hound, Ser Gilmore, and I leave the larder covered in blood smears, which does little to settle either my Nan or her servants. Unfortunately, Mother and her guests are less easily upset by the state of my armor when I bump into them on the way to our private rooms.

"Darling, I take it that the affair in the kitchen has been settled? Did you by chance finally kill the beast? Oh, no, there he is," she adds as soon as she sees him trotting up behind me on the path. He growls, but I pat him on the head and order him to be silent.

"Absolon was chasing out a pack of giant rats, if you must know," I retort, and Mother shakes her head.

"Just the thing for my guests to hear before dinner, dearest." She turns to the woman and young man nearby, and I resist the urge to go running after Ser Gilmore. I recognize these two: the woman had gotten drunk at our last salon and spent the evening attempting to coerce me into marrying her useless fop of a son. But Lady Landra and I both pretend to find that memory amusing rather than embarrassing. That is, until she mentions that Dairren is still a bachelor. Suddenly, I'm suspicious of my mother's timing in bringing these guests here. It's bad enough to be left behind while Father and my brother Fergus make history, but to be left behind so that Mother and her friend might play  _matchmaker_ is an insufferable thought.

"Don't mind my mother," he drawls. "It's good to see you again, my lady. You're looking as beautiful as ever."

"Which is a feat, since I am covered in rat blood and smell like the Wilds," I retort. "Are you attempting to insult me intentionally?"

"I... beg your pardon?" he manages, and Mother shakes her head and makes a quip about my diplomatic skills needing work. But Dairren is ever my supporter, and insists that me having a mind of my own is lovely.

"But it's not getting me more grandchildren!" My mother frowns at me, and I sigh and wipe at a drying clot of blood on my forehead. It's an old tune she's singing.

"May I go now, Mother?"

Dairren makes loud noises about moving to the study until dinner, and I make a mental note not to pass my time there tonight, then retire to my room to bathe. Unfortunately, I learn from my father and brother that Duncan has chosen the study as his refuge, for both during dinner and afterward. I can't bring myself to risk spending that much time around my enterprising suitor, and so I enlist my sister-in- law's help in choosing a gown in my room and spend the time before the meal discussing Antivan fashions. She insists on one that is more low-cut than I would prefer with Lady Landra's son about, but my brother's wife is a persuasive woman. As I walk toward dinner, arm-in-arm with her and my nephew, I begin to hope that our guests will be seated away from the family table. More of my chest is cold than bodes well for my evening.

But Dairren sits beside me at dinner, and begins asking about books. Unfortunately, I discover that he has good taste, but it's not until I learn he'll be riding out with my father in the morning that I begin to warm up to him. When he admits surprise that I'm not following my brother into battle, I nearly smile.

"Someone needs to stay and look after the castle, and the task has fallen to me."

He makes sympathetic noises. "I'll remember all I can, then, and tell you about it when we return."

I almost say something impolite, but Mother steps on my foot before I can find the proper words, and I'm forced to smile and nod with tears in my eyes. He believes that I'm touched by his attentions. His look turns calculating, and my warm feelings fade as quickly as they arrived.

"Would you like to meet somewhere more private after dinner?" he murmurs into my ear, and I let the smile Mother taught me mask my face once again. "I should like to get to know you better."

"I have business with the Grey Warden after dinner," I reply, and watch his face fall. "But I look forward to conversing with you once you return from the battlefield."

"I-indeed, my lady," he answers, and I excuse myself from the table. They have just sent for the bard, and are likely to remain in the main hall for another hour. When Mother gives me a warning look, I point to my foot and make a show of limping. Guilt wins over suspicion, and I'm allowed my freedom without further protest.

I thought that Aldous might be with Duncan in the study, as he likes to talk to guests, but he appears to be eating with the squires in the kitchen. As a result, I find myself alone with the Grey Warden, which seems to unsettle him.

"Forgive me, my lady, but where is your escort?" He looks up from his book with a small frown and drops his legs from where they had been resting on the table. I refrain from smiling at the action. Out of his armor, he cuts a far less imposing figure, though battle-hardened muscle is more readily apparent beneath the dark cloth of his shirt than it had been behind steel.

"They need to eat, Warden. This is the only time my schedule will permit a discussion tonight. And my former tutor," I add with a frown, "who usually seems to _live_ in this room, appears to be elsewhere, so you must forgive me for coming alone."

Duncan closes the book he was reading and rises to stand across from me. "Yes, Aldous was kind enough to give me time to sample your rather impressive collection before I retired for the evening. He left me mere minutes ago."

This time I allow my smile to break through; it's refreshing to find someone who speaks my language. "He will tire of you soon enough, and go back to tormenting our squires. Have you eaten, ser Duncan?"

He shakes his head.

"Is there something I might order for you that will be more tempting than tonight's fare? It would be rude of me to assume Wardens survive on air alone."

"It is not your food, my lady, but rather my age. I find myself lacking an appetite of late."

"Nonsense," I retort. "You are only once again my age, surely, and not a single grey hair on your head. My father eats like a war hound. Please, spare me your manners and tell me what you would prefer to see on the table tomorrow."

Duncan laughs, though he doesn't smile. "Very well, my lady. I shall give the cook a list in the morning. But allow me a trade—do you need training, or sparring practice while I am here?"

"If you wish to test me, you may do so openly. I came here in the hopes of convincing you to recruit me."

He gives me a calculating stare. "Your father has said no."

"But my mother has not." I cross my arms, and he mimics the gesture across from me, stroking at his dark beard thoughtfully.

"As I understand it, your mother is what is keeping you tethered to the castle."

"So conscript me." Based on what I had gotten out of Ser Gilmore earlier, the Wardens can conscript whom they want, and everyone is bound by law to accept their decisions, nobleman or commoner.

Duncan shakes his head. "I have promised your father that I will not invoke that right in your case."

"You have not made a similar promise to my mother, however."

"A technicality that will still damage the Wardens' relationship with your family if I agree to take you."

I stamp my foot in frustration and attempt to keep my voice from rising. "But you said yourself that I would be an excellent Warden!"

"My lady, you are indeed a... tempting candidate. But you have a status that most recruits do not, and as such I must tread carefully."

"Maker's breath," I mutter, and slump into a nearby chair. "That is it, then. I am stuck here until mother marries me off to some idiot noble, and then I shall be forced to look after a castle for more than just a few weeks at a time. And _I_ shall rot while others who do not wish to fight are forced to do so!"

He stares down at me in confusion.

"I wish that you had been at dinner. Then you would understand the sort of man that I am destined for."

There is a long silence. "Dairren was in here before dinner."

"You see, then," I sulk.

"Surely not all your suitors have been as unpalatable."

"Oh, certainly not. They are worse, in fact. After all, Dairren can _read_." I meet Duncan's eyes but don’t smile, intending to make clear just how serious I am.

The Warden shakes his head and leans against the table across from me with crossed arms. "I am truly sorry, but I still cannot give you what you are asking."

I rise from the chair without speaking. I despise feeling powerless above all things, but this day has seemed determined to tear away every illusion of control I've managed to give myself over the years. My father and brother don't want me on the battlefield, and my mother will throw suitors that I've rejected at me again to see if they find better purchase a second time. My word, and my opinion, appears to mean nothing. So I do the only thing I can think of to regain control of the situation: I take Duncan by the neck of his shirt, pull him toward me, and press my mouth to his.

His entire body stiffens in shock, and I can feel my heart pounding, but Father has told me more times than I can count never to show when I'm nervous. _You'll never get what you want if you seem weak, pup. Learn to hide those feelings and seem confident in all of your decisions._ And so when he makes a half-hearted attempt to pull away, I bring my free hand to the hair at the nape of his neck and force his mouth back against mine and my tongue between his lips.

Seconds later, he gives the half-growl, half-moan of a man who has been in the field for too long. My brother often made a similar sound after returning from diplomatic trips, believing that his closed door offered him privacy and forgetting that I often went to bed after he and his wife. And, Ser Gilmore had done much the same when I made good on a bet last year and gave him the kiss I owed him for losing a match. Since then, the knight has often looked at me with open longing, but Duncan's face as he takes me by the shoulders and gently pulls me from him is rife with confusion.

"Offhand, I can think of three or four young men in this castle who might kill for a kiss from you."

I scowl at him. "Father decides when and if I fight, Mother decides whom I marry. Surely you are not suggesting that _you_ should decide whom I find appealing?" When his fingers tighten ever-so-slightly against my shoulders, I grin. "Or perhaps I am not to your taste?"

Duncan takes one deep breath, causing his shoulders to heave underneath his shirt. A second. Only after swallowing does he find his voice. "My lady, that is not the problem. I simply cannot believe my luck."

"Then allow me to convince you," I smile, and move my lips to his once more. This time, it is his tongue that finds mine, and soon I've been backed up against the wall. Only when he has me by the wrists and has pressed them against the brick on either side of my head does he stop advancing. His mouth is pressed against mine with such force that his beard makes my skin tingle, but it's a delicious sensation when backed by his desire.

"Not here, I think," he gasps eventually, releasing my hands, and I shake my head.

"Follow me to my room. My family is not in the habit of disturbing me after dinner." My heart is still pounding, but my voice remains level. _Thank you, Father. Thank you, Mother._

He follows close behind me in the corridor, and I can feel the heat radiating off his body. Music and laughter from the hall suggest that it will be simple to reach my room unseen, and this proves true. Absolon snorts curiously at Duncan as he enters the room, then returns to napping on his pillow.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind me, Duncan presses his body against mine, and I feel his muscles against every nerve. Ser Gilmore is stockier, but Duncan would probably be the stronger of the two men. As it is, he holds me still with no effort as his mouth finds mine. I consider remarking that he appears to have overcome his reservations, but as soon as his lips move from my mouth to my ear I lose the will. He seems to have decided to take control of the situation, which is excellent, since I have next to no idea of what I am doing. My nervousness fades and is replaced with heat as his teeth nip against my neck.

"It occurs to me," he murmurs in my ear, taking me by the shoulders and guiding me toward the bed, "that I have no idea what to call you. 'Pup' seems inappropriate for the situation, and I have not been given your name."

I laugh and tug at his shirt, assuming correctly that he wishes our clothing to be elsewhere. He removes his fluidly, then begins working on my gown. "My name is Evelyn, ser Duncan."

"Well met," he breathes, hauling the dress over my head and returning his tongue to my neck.

"Indeed," I gasp, arching against him as his breath sends heat skipping down my spine.

He picks me up by the waist and carries me to my bed with no apparent effort. As he rests my back against my pillows, I take the opportunity to inspect his chest and arms, and the network of scars lacerating his upper body. I want to run my fingers and tongue along them, and so as soon as he has straddled my thighs I lean forward to do so. He groans and tilts his face toward the ceiling as my mouth presses against a rather large scar on his chest.

"Stop distracting me," he growls at last, pushing me back against the bed by my shoulders. I can feel hard, hot flesh against my stomach, through his trousers, and my heart begins to pound again. I refuse to allow myself to swallow uncertainly. He presses my chest to his, and as his fingers work to unfasten my breast-band I take a few experimental licks at his earring. The gasp with which I'm rewarded is fascinating.

I want to see what other noises I can steal from him, but he appears to have the same idea, because as soon as my chest is bare he's hauling on my underwear while his tongue slides against my collarbone. I don't expect it to feel as good as it does, so am entirely unprepared when my fingers dig into his biceps and I groan against his shoulder. He leans down, encouraging my hands to press against his back, then takes one of my nipples into his mouth. I feel my nails digging into his skin, but instead of the hiss of pain I'm expecting, he buries his face in my chest and moans, grinding his hips urgently against mine. I feel heat against my thigh and an answering pang of warmth in the pit of my stomach. But when I slide a hand to the waist of his trousers, he pins it back against the bed.

"No, Evelyn. I am not nearly done with you, yet."

I'm about to ask what he means when his tongue begins working its way down between my breasts and toward my stomach. I twitch unthinkingly and laugh as he pins my hips to the bed.

"Spread your legs."

My nervousness surfaces again. This time I _do_ swallow awkwardly, but he's too intent on the view in front of him to notice. I expose my inner thighs to his face and try to ignore the flush that I can feel creeping across my cheeks. His beard tickles briefly along the sensitive skin of my legs, but then his tongue licks at me and my vision goes dim.

I'm no stranger to pleasure, at least in the sense that I know how to enjoy myself in the bath, but what he's doing between my legs makes all the attentions I've given myself over the years seem wasted. His tongue knows just where to apply pressure, what speed will make me clutch at the sheets and hiss. I find myself up on my elbows, looking down my stomach and watching him taste me. His dark eyes flicker to mine for a moment, and then he laps with renewed force, making my arms go wobbly and sending me back against the bed.

I follow his silent suggestion and allow myself to enjoy his attentions. It takes an embarrassingly short time for my eyes to tell me that the world is turning white, and the sounds I'm making have a low, throaty edge to them. Eventually, I realize that's what my voice sounds like when it is desperate. I would be angry at him if he weren't so good at what he is doing. Bloody Warden, is he going to make me _beg_? My hips buck against his face quite against my will, and I clench my teeth to keep from speaking. I don't trust what my brain wants me to say.

But I sit back up on one elbow and my fingers reach for his trousers again, and this time he obligingly unties their drawstring and begins to slide them off, never once slowing his tongue between my legs. I don't know what I want, exactly, or I do but am not sure how to ask for it from another person, but in a moment it does not matter because—

Duncan's hand covers my mouth as I cry out much more loudly than I expected I would. I clench my teeth and arch my back toward him instead. He lunges toward my face, pressing his mouth to mine, and I feel nothing but his skin against my own. My heart starts pounding again as I feel him positioning between my legs. I want to warn him, but his tongue is playing against my neck and all I can do is hiss encouragement.

His first thrust isn't gentle, and my hips and stomach shriek in pain, insisting that they're being stretched beyond what they can safely handle. I clutch at his lower back and try not to grimace in pain, but when his hips press toward mine for the third time I can't help but whimper. Duncan stops his motion instantly and stares down at me, wide-eyed.

"No, surely not." His voice rumbles in his chest, and I feel it against my skin.

"I am afraid so." I smile at him and force the muscles in my back to relax.

"One wonders why I wasn't told," he grumbles, nibbling at my neck. My nerves focus on this new thrill and try to ignore the odd sensations still radiating from between my legs.

"You would never have agreed."

He shakes his head and kisses my shoulder. "Or, I might have made these first few moments less painful for you."

"Do I seem like the type of person that worries about pain?" I grab him around the waist and pull him down against me, hoping to encourage him. "Now keep going, or it will never stop hurting."

He buries his face against my neck and pushes into me again. "Are you certain?"

"Yes," I groan, and then gasp as his teeth graze against my skin, sending tendrils of pleasure down my arms and chest. "Yes!"

Duncan remains gentle despite my urgings, and I'm surprised by how quickly the pain gives way to pleasure. Soon my nerves are focusing on the heat of his skin and the feel of his muscles as they flex against my stomach rather than the newness of having a man within me. I arch my back and encourage him with my voice, wanting to know what it will feel like if he increases the pace. He senses my urgency and guides my legs to wrap around his waist.

It's amazing how such a subtle shift in position can have such a dramatic effect on my nerves. It feels as though each thrust is bringing him deeper within me, and I find myself pressing back against him in perfect counterpoint. I don't want him to stop. I want us both to be sweaty and tangled and exhausted and never leave the bed because he feels so good that my nerves can hardly stand it. That desperate edge is back in my voice, and he must hear it, because he resumes biting and licking at my neck, adding to the pleasure already inundating my nerves. He's forced to cover my mouth again as my body shudders beneath him, and I wonder dimly if I would be allowed to become a Warden if we were discovered, and it was made known to my mother that I had been with Duncan? What use would I be to her then? The thought is strangely thrilling.

His breathing is becoming more rapid, and I cling to his shoulders for dear life as he thrusts into me, eyes closed, mouth open, tiny droplets of sweat gathering on his beard. Our eyes meet just as my muscles begin to complain that they are going to be very sore, indeed, and he clenches his teeth and collapses against me with an undignified grunt.

My eyes close, and I drift, listening to him breathe. After a few minutes he pulls himself to his elbows and gazes down at me with an unreadable expression. "I trust that was not too terrible of an experience for you?"

"If you crave a repeat during your visit," I smile, "inform me, and I shall work you into my schedule."

"How kind of you, my lady." Duncan shifts and falls heavily beside me on the bed. He doesn't smile, but I believe that the way the skin around his eyes tightens indicates amusement. "Now the problem becomes getting me out of your room unseen."

"Stay and rest a while. You may return to your room once my family has fallen asleep."

"You are certain that no one will come looking for you?"

"No, but there is room underneath my bed if you would prefer to wait there."

He makes it clear that he's less than pleased with my quip, and so I rise and begin to pull the blankets down toward the foot of my bed. "Get the bedclothes arranged while I clean up."

Duncan shrugs and begins to pull blankets up around his waist. I move to my wash basin and take a damp cloth to the mess between my legs. Hmm. No blood. Thank the Maker for a lifetime of physical activity. Nan had told me it might be worse when my time came. The elves will likely notice the stains when my linens are changed, but they'll know better than to mention it.

"You're walking strangely," Duncan sighs as I return to the bed. "That will not do."

"I shall tell them I pulled a muscle sparring with Ser Gilmore. It would not be the first time."

"Beat him often, do you?" He rests his arms behind his head and leans back against his hands, gazing at me with interest.

"Daily, if you must know." I wince my way onto the bed beside him and draw the blankets up around me. "Without him I would not be nearly as good with a blade."

Duncan makes a quiet noise in his throat and watches me fall back against my pillow. I've never had someone else sleep in a room with me before, at least not since Nan was sent to the kitchens, and my mind worries that I'll have difficulty sleeping for the few seconds before my body inundates me with exhaustion.

I turn on my side out of habit and am already nearly asleep when his voice sounds in my ear. "May I put an arm around you?"

"You are in bed with me, are you not?"

He pauses. "Unfortunately, for someone like me, that does not necessarily indicate closeness." His hand slides along my waist and rests above my hip. When I nod, he presses against me with more certainty. "I tend to have nightmares, though the presence of another person may grant me a good night's rest."

"Perhaps you should recruit me, then."

I feel him laugh against my back. "Already returning to that topic, Evelyn? I have told you no. Bedding me will not change my mind."

I squeeze his hand. "Of course not, but there is no harm in making plain the perks of my company."

I feel the faint brush of lips against the back of my neck. "Quit harping on an old man and allow him some rest, or he may die of exhaustion before you see a repeat of this encounter."

"Very well, Warden. Consider the subject dropped."

"You have my thanks." As he relaxes into sleep, his body presses against mine more fully, and soon I am warm and surrounded by his scent.

"Wake us up when the hall is clear, Absolon," I murmur, and he barks in agreement. Thus reassured, I drift, enjoying how warm Duncan has made my bed. The chances of enjoying both this and sex during the rest of his visit are slim, since Mother's room is right down the hall, but that doesn't lessen my appreciation of the experience.

His nightmares bring me back into consciousness when he begins to toss and turn, but he doesn't wake, and so I wait for them to pass and then press against his side to steal more warmth from his body. Based upon the sounds of the hall, we'll have another three hours before the servants retire to their quarters and leave the corridors safe and empty.

But when Absolon rouses me, it's not because it is safe for the Warden to return to his room. Rather, there appears to be someone at the door.


	2. Traces of Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is AO.

Duncan is awake and moving in seconds, but I'm forced to struggle through a haze of confusion. At first I can't remember why having someone at the door makes me panicky, and then I spend a few moments wondering why I'm not alone in my room. Finally, my brain comes to, and I focus on my nervous war hound with a cold feeling in my stomach.

"Absolon, is someone there?"

He growls, and I hear a loud thud from the hall. Duncan already has an ear to the door, and appears tense. Faint marks on his back remind me of what we have just done, and I debate suggesting that he hide under my bed, but conclude quickly that he's not the sort of man to resort to such measures. Which means that we must hope the person on the other side of the door isn't a member of my family checking on the status of my "injured" foot.

"One of the servants must have dropped something," I whisper, rising and moving closer to him. The Warden shakes his head and silently orders me to halt. The set of his features convinces me that something is seriously wrong, and so I'm not surprised when the door bursts open. Duncan lunges aside just in time for two armor-clad soldiers to burst into my bedroom. He's behind them, covered by shadows, and so all that these intruders see is me, standing naked in the center of the room. They leer and step toward me, swords drawn, radiating confidence and a certainty that my life will be ended soon.

As though it would be so easy to kill a Cousland woman.

Absolon has one of them by the jugular before I've finished dodging the first blow. My daggers are never far from reach, and I manage to reclaim them just as the soldier shakes off my hound and sets his sights on me once more.

"Duncan!" He meets my eyes and deftly catches the blade I send his way. The one in my hands seeks flesh and finds it, burying itself to the hilt between two leather plates. As the soldier sinks to the floor, my hound tears at his throat. I whirl to take care of the other, but Duncan has already dispatched him. He tosses the dagger back to me and reaches for his clothes, ignoring the blood streaking his chest and stomach.

We dress hurriedly, and I attempt to keep panic out of my voice as I think aloud. "Those were Arl Howe's men. I recognize the mark upon their shields." No wonder he'd seemed so out of sorts today!

"It appears that he lied about his men being delayed, and sent your brother on ahead with the main force so that the castle might more readily fall." Duncan belts his trousers and pulls his shirt over his head as I struggle into my armor. It takes me longer than is prudent to find my smallclothes, and I find myself cursing our earlier enthusiasm. If I'd remained in the main hall, I might have noticed some misstep, some oddity on the arl's part, and then perhaps....

No, such thoughts are useless. The betrayal has already occurred, and what I must deal with now are the results. First, I must understand the arl's motives. But perhaps easier will be to find my mother and father. I turn to the Warden, but his thoughts are already focused elsewhere.

"I must get to my equipment." He strides to the doorway and glances both ways before running toward the guest room.

"Wait! We need to find my family!"

But he's already gone. I wipe a smear of blood off of Absolon's face with a sigh. "So much for the fabled bravery of the Grey Wardens. It is just you and me, boy." The hound whines as he falls into step beside me, and we cautiously enter the hall.

There are two soldiers at the far end attempting to break down the door to my parents' room, but they are entirely unprepared to face my rage and Absolon's bloodlust. The door opens as they lie dying on the floor, revealing Mother in full armor.

"The arl's men have attacked the castle," I say, but she holds up a hand to silence me. "Thank the Maker you're alive!"

"Mother, please," I scoff. "I have been training for years. Where is Father?"

"He never came to bed, darling. He was in the Great Hall with the arl after supper."

"We need to go find him!"

Mother shakes her head. "He would want us to leave. We should move for the exit in the pantry."

"What, and just let the castle fall?"

"I would rather lose the castle than my lovely little girl."

"And all of our things, too, I suppose?"

Mother pauses. "Well, perhaps we should make a short stop at the vault. There are some family weapons I would hate to see in enemy hands."

"So glad you see it my way." I turn on my heel and begin to walk back down the corridor. She falls into step behind me, bow drawn.

"Your foot seems to have recovered well enough, dearest," she observes.

"Yes, thank the Maker. All it needed was some _peace and quiet_."

We pause outside my nephew and sister-in-law's door, which is still tightly closed. Absolon whines as my hand touches the doorknob, and I think back to the loud noises that upset him so when he roused me and Duncan. "I cannot imagine that they slept through that."

As the door opens, I am inundated by the thick stench of blood.

No. I can't let Mother see. We need to stay calm. "Mother, back up. Do not look."

"Why, what is the matter?" I feel her step toward me and quickly slam the door, but I can tell by her face that she recognizes the smell inside of their room. "No!"

Perhaps they're simply wounded, or only one of them was murdered. I can't carry on in good conscience without being sure that they're beyond my aid. "Absolon, back her up." He growls warningly and shoves himself at Mother's knees until she's forced to stumble backward. Once I'm convinced that she cannot see around the threshold, I order him to stay and open the door once more.

The death of my sister-in-law I'm prepared for—indeed, I'm glad that death was all she suffered at the hands of the soldiers—but they've also killed Oren, my nephew, who was barely old enough to lift a blade to defend himself. I expect shock, or nausea, but instead I experience an overwhelming desire to bury my daggers into the arl's gut. I pull the door closed with a click. "That _bastard_."

Mother doesn't need to ask what happened. She buries her face in her hands, then, with a shuddering breath, regains control. "We must find your father. He is probably waiting for us in the kitchens. You know that he would never leave without you."

"After we retrieve our things from the armory, Mother."

I'm worried that she will be too shaken by the death of her only grandchild to keep her wits about her as we walk, but the instant more soldiers appear she pins one to the cobblestones with a well-aimed arrow. We come across a servant, whom I convince to come with us, though I spend a great deal of time protecting him from the well-trained men we find ourselves up against. The Grey Warden would have been a far more useful companion, blast him. But the four of us manage to make it to the armory just the same, though my anger nearly gives way to grief when we stumble across the body of Aldous. The man had never carried a weapon in his life; what threat could he have been to the arl's soldiers? I had assumed their orders were to assassinate my family, but instead it appears that they intend to purge the castle completely. If that is the case, Mother's friend and Dairren will likely have fallen along with our staff. It seems weak of me, but I don't have the heart to verify it for myself; unwelcome suitor or no, he didn't deserve cold-blooded _slaughter_.

Once we get to the treasury, I secure our family's sword and shield and take several deep breaths as Mother selects a longbow from the rack. The servant is shaking, and I realize that if I vent my feelings now he won't make it out of this alive. I swallow my sadness and am strong for his sake, just as Mother is likely being strong for mine. I'm not inclined to let either of them die while I still draw breath.

"The way to the kitchens was blocked, did you see?" Mother's voice is level as she tests her new bowstring.

"We shall have to cut through the Great Hall, then."

"M-m-my lady, there's a full-on battle in there," the servant stammers.

"Keep behind us, and only join in once the ranks have thinned a bit. I shall be very angry if you do anything rash."

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. "Understood, my lady."

Ser Gilmore is still alive; once the soldiers in the main hall have fallen, I almost burst into tears and fling myself into his arms in relief. He, for one, looks more than prepared to accept such an action. But he has several of his men with him, and so for the sake of appearances I only allow myself a pleased smile. This doesn't stop him from stepping in close and gazing down at me in concern.

"What has happened to your face, my lady?"

I lift a hand to my cheek, but naturally feel nothing out of the ordinary through my gauntlets. "What, Ser Gilmore?"

"Your lips and chin are raw."

I remember Duncan's beard and refuse to allow myself to blush. "A minor mishap from dressing quickly in the dark. Why is Father not with you?"

"He insisted on leaving to find you and the teyrna." The knight explains that Father was badly wounded during the initial attack on the Main Hall, but left with the Grey Warden to locate me and my mother. I feel suddenly guilty for assuming Duncan left my side out of cowardice. I assumed he was fleeing, when he'd simply obeyed my plea to find my family.

"I know where they have gone. We need to get to the larder, and quickly!" My mother's voice brings me back into the moment, and so I don't feel startled when a horrendous noise comes from the main doors to the hall.

"Take that as your sign to go now," Ser Gilmore says. "They're trying to get into the hall again."

"Let me stay and—" I begin, but he shakes his head angrily.

"When that door falls, we won't be able to protect you anymore. Escape while you can, my lady." The veneer almost cracks, but I manage to maintain a level tone. "And what about you?"

He taps me under the chin; he must be resigned to his impending death to act so informally around my mother. "It's time for me to see if those days of being soundly defeated by you have taught me anything. Now go." When the main doors are nearly ripped from their hinges, he and his men run to brace them. "Go!" he calls over his shoulder.

My mother and the servant are already fleeing, and so I follow and blink back angry tears. My best friend wasn't supposed to die before I did. I had spent years informing him that he wasn't allowed, and he'd _promised—_

No. If we can find Duncan, Ser Gilmore might have a chance. The Warden won't let go of a recruit so easily. I increase the pace of our party, beheading any soldiers that get in our way, and when a surviving Cousland guard stumbles upon us and offers his protection, I welcome the additional blade.

But when we reach the larder, the Warden is nowhere to be found. There is only Father, half-sitting on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

"Ah," he smiles. "I was beginning to wonder if I would last long enough to see the two of you again." I sink to the floor beside him. "We are here now, and can all leave. Let's get you out of here."

Father shakes his head. "Leave me be. I'd slow you down, pup, and likely just die on the road."

The tears that have been threatening my grasp of the situation since I stumbled upon my former tutor well to the surface, and my voice finally cracks. "Do not say such things. You are coming with us if I have to drag you!"

"I wouldn't, unless you want to leave pieces of me behind, pup."

"This is no time for jokes, Bryce!" my mother wails. But he forces me to inspect his wound, and I swallow a sob as I realize he's been partially gutted. He must be in terrible pain.

Duncan chooses this moment to walk through the doors to the larder, and looks down at me and my mother with mild surprise.

"Look who fought her way through the entire castle to find me, Duncan, while keeping her mother and the servants safe." Father chuckles. "And here I was worried that she was in danger."

"I am unsurprised, my lord." He falls to one knee beside us. "She is a very determined girl."

"You take her, and my wife, and get them to safety." Father's face is pale. "Promise me that." Duncan pauses. "Of course, but teyrn, I came here seeking a recruit, and I must leave with one."

"You heartless bastard," I hiss. "Father is _dying_ at your feet!"

"Hush, pup. This is what you wanted just this morning, is it not? Duncan, you have my permission to take my daughter as a Grey Warden as payment for your aid. Now keep them safe."

"But Ser Gilmore—" I begin, but Duncan is shaking his head.

"The main room has fallen. He did not survive the attack."

I feel sick, but Duncan urges me to my feet, and so I obey. "Mother, we need to hurry. The soldiers will be here soon if the hall has been taken."

She shakes her head. "I'm staying with your father." When I stare down at her in shock, she stands beside me and draws her bow. "They have taken my home, my grandson, and my husband. I will buy the both of you time so that they do not end up with my daughter, as well."

No. _No_. Both of them have gone mad. "Mother, I refuse to allow this!"

"Pup, get out of here," gasps my father.

"I am not letting you do this!"

She gives me a level stare. "I'm afraid that you do not have a say, Evelyn. Duncan, if you please." She turns toward the door, bow ready, and falls into a seasoned firing stance.

The Grey Warden takes me by the shoulders, and I strike out at him wildly, hitting only plate. "No! No! Mother, Father, you cannot do this!"

"Listen to me for once, pup, and obey what we're telling you." His voice is growing weaker. The rational part of my mind, the one he has insisted that I always listen to, is screaming that he wouldn't survive being moved, and that even attempting it would be cruel, but these are my _parents_! I won't just leave my parents to die in the kitchen of their own bloody castle!

"Let go of me!" I kick my feet, and he releases my arms, allowing me to fall to the floor. "Duncan, help me talk some sense into them!"

He looks from me to my idiot parents, unsheathes his sword, and for a moment I think that he'll drive Mother from the room at bladepoint, but then the pommel comes crashing down. Pain flares behind my eyes, and then—

 

~*-*~

 

Cold. Head hurts.

 

"Are you awake? We may need to move camp, and I have reached the limit that I can carry you."

Duncan's voice. I sit up and am rewarded with a wave of nausea. I close my eyes and almost collapse, but he supports me in his arms. "No, it will be better for you if you fight through it."

"You hit me with a sword," I manage, and he pushes my hair out of my eyes to inspect them. I focus on his face with some difficulty, for it's dark and I'm more than slightly dizzy.

"A necessity, I fear. You were hysterical, and I was charged with your protection."

"And so you... hit me with a sword." There, the worst of the dizziness is gone. I pull away slightly and attempt to sit on my own. My fingers search at my temple, and yes, brilliant, there is an enormous knot where pommel met skin.

"The alternative was allowing you to die."

"Where is Absolon?"

At his name, my hound comes slinking out of the darkness. I stretch out my hand to reassure him and am soon covered in dampness from his happy licking.

"He has followed behind me since the castle. The servant you rescued took the main road toward his family, and has instructed me to thank you."

I wipe my hand on my leg and encounter more skin. No wonder I'm cold: my armor is gone. "Why am I nearly naked?"

"Evelyn, I was forced to carry you for several hours. I did the best that I could." Duncan's eyes have narrowed, and some dim part of my brain suggests that I not pursue the subject.

"I am thirsty."

"We're lacking provisions, but there is a spring nearby. Allow me to help you to it."

"No need." I stand shakily and follow the sound of running water. My bare feet complain about stray rocks and sticks as I tread on them, but that distracts from the pain in my head and offers a strange sort of clarity. Absolon follows behind, whining each time I stumble.

The water is cold, which does nothing to alleviate the chills that I'm already experiencing, but it tastes lovely. I drink my fill like a hound before catching sight of my hands and stomach in the gloom. My skin is coated in the blood of the soldiers I cut down mere hours ago. It must have seeped through my armor. Some unattractive scrunching of my features confirms that my face is bloodstained, as well, the worst spots tugging and pulling and refusing to flex with the rest of my skin. I wonder if anyone had encountered Duncan as he carried me, and if so, if they had believed me murdered. I certainly would have.

I dunk my hands into the spring to rinse them, and attempt to bring some water to my face to clean it, but my fingers are shaking and refuse to cup properly. I spill two handfuls on myself before cursing and giving up.

"Evelyn, please," Duncan murmurs from behind me. "Allow me to help." Taking my silence for agreement, he falls to his knees beside me and removes his gauntlets. "I have seen my share of battle wounds, and all of this blood looks to be your enemies'. A lucky fight."

"...I have never... killed anyone before." He tilts my head back and pours a handful of water onto my temple, and I watch him inspect me in the gloom with his serious eyes.

"Then I am impressed. You handled yourself exceedingly well." His fingers smear at the blood coating my cheeks, and I taste metallic water at the corner of my mouth. For some reason, I can remember the soldier whose blood Duncan is removing. I'd slit his throat with a sweep of my knives, and felt his blood spattering my cheeks as he died, but I was so focused on the rest of the battle that it didn't register. Now, with the taste of it on my tongue, I feel ill. My teeth begin to chatter uncontrollably, and my hands are trembling.

"I am very cold, Duncan."

He meets my eyes again. "It is a warm night. Let us get you clean and into my spare clothes." His hands run across my stomach, and wipe at my knuckles, while I sit beside him and shiver.

I doubt that his spare clothes are clean: they smell strongly of him, which makes me strangely tired. His shirt hangs loosely on me, and night air manages to contact my skin through the ill-fitting sleeves. It would be foolish to ask for a fire; based on the terrain, we aren't far from the castle, and I don't wish to be caught again so soon after my parents sacrificed themselves for my freedom.

This thought makes the shaking worse, and Duncan sighs. "You are in shock." He casts his chest-piece aside and pulls me close. I curl up in his lap like a little girl and try to press as much of my skin as possible against his to fend off the ice. "Try to sleep. You will feel better in the morning."

In a way, he's correct: by morning the worst of the shock from killing so many men has worn off, and what I'm left with is anger. Anger at Arl Howe, who _will_ pay, and at my mother, for not fleeing with me. And anger at Duncan, for forcing my father's hand to gain a recruit, and of course for hitting me over the head. No one at the castle would have _dared_. We spend the day walking in silence, but as night falls and we make camp I can contain myself no longer.

"I cannot believe you." Absolon adds a growl to the conversation, but I silence him with a look.

Duncan turns from where he was arranging stones for a fire pit and gives me a placid stare. "This should be interesting."

"How could you just leave them like that?"

"I was at your father's castle seeking a recruit. They ordered me to take you and leave."

I toss the sticks that I'd been gathering at his feet. "And I ordered you to help me prevent my mother from committing suicide!"

Duncan doesn't look up from the fire he's building. "Evelyn, you are now a Grey Warden. That makes you my subordinate."

"Forgive me if the manner of my recruitment does not sit well with me, _ser_ Duncan," I sulk. "I am not accustomed to being openly disobeyed."

"Then I suggest you either acclimate quickly, or desist in pretending that I am one of your knights." He begins arranging the wood I brought within the stones, and I find myself possessed of an almost uncontrollable urge to strike him upon the head with a stick and see how _he_ enjoys it. Instead, I slump against a nearby tree and stare up at the sky through the trees.

Once he has finished stoking the fire, Duncan sits beside me. "Yesterday you were begging me to defy your parents and take you as a Warden, but now that you are one you are angry."

"Tell me. If Ser Gilmore had survived the main hall, would you have agreed to save me?"

"Perhaps. Yes, I believe that I would have. Ser Gilmore would have insisted."

"And would you still have forced my father to agree to allow me to become a Warden?"

Duncan sighs. "I do not believe so. We may need recruits, but as I have said, we do not need them badly enough to risk angering the entire Cousland family."

"So you are an opportunist, as well as a coward."

His face hardens. "I do what must be done to defend this realm from darkspawn."

"I wish to be alone," I mutter at last, and to my surprise he rises readily and relocates to nearer the fire. "Very well," he says, turning his back to me and facing the flames. "You may have the first watch."

I manage to remain angry at him until his nightmares begin. Watching him toss and turn reminds me of all the tales Aldous used to tell me of Grey Wardens single-handedly stopping Blights. It's clear from the history of their order that a single person can, in fact, turn the tide of a battle. With that in mind, I'm able to forgive him for demanding me of my father. But I can't....

Mother, you _idiot_.

I attempt to cry quietly, but Duncan's sleep is already restless, and so it doesn't take him long to come to. He must be accustomed to angry recruits, because despite my earlier tongue-lashing he returns to my side, and after I crawl into his lap he puts his arms around me with no reluctance. His fingers thread through my hair as I work to bring my breathing back under control, and would be soothing if I hadn't spent the entire day in his clothing, wrapped in his scent. Soon my nerves are reminding me of the skills of his tongue, and insisting that I'm neither too sore nor too distraught to seduce him again.

When my lips brush against his neck, he hisses softly. "What are you doing?"

"I did say that this would be a perk of my company, did I not? It seems impolite to go back on my word simply because I am angry with you." He seems about to protest, so I lick a trail to his ear and tease at his earring with my tongue. In seconds his head has fallen back, and I'm tasting the skin of his throat. I remember liking his teeth on my shoulder, so try the action on him, and am pleased by the enthusiasm of his response.

"I may regret recruiting you," he gasps, and attempts to restrain me by the wrists. I shift my leg to straddle his thigh and grind against him suggestively, bringing my chest near his face.

"Imagine how little I care." His eyes are half-lidded, and I manage to lean forward and lick at his neck while he is distracted by what I'm doing to his leg. Unfortunately, it's distracting me nearly as effectively, and so I'm unprepared for him to shove me over into the dirt. I'm left partially stunned by the impact as his mouth begins to roam over me with a bit more violence than I remember from our previous encounter. Perhaps I'm not the only one of us who is annoyed.

Duncan makes short work of our clothing, which is a relief, because when I arch my back and press against him I'm rewarded by warm skin and strong muscles. He tries to lead us as before, but I find the idea unappealing. While he's distracted by my neck, I wrap my legs around his waist and roll us over. He watches me settle onto his lower stomach with amused eyes.

"What are you doing, Evelyn?"

"I am unsure, but it seemed like an excellent idea." My hands slide down his stomach, and I smile as I feel his muscles flex and hear him gasp faintly in pleasure. His scars tempt me again, and I lean down to taste them, only to be thwarted by his hands pulling me upward so that he might kiss me. I'm given no chance to grumble at this interference, because as his tongue seeks mine his hands cup at my breasts and send a thrill down my spine. Soon, I'm as distracted as I intended for him to be, and draped weakly across him. He takes me by the upper arms and pulls my chest to his face, licking raptly as I fall to my elbows and bury his face in my cleavage. Duncan's teeth dig gently into one of my nipples as his hand slides down to massage my backside, and after a few moments of combined sensation I can only close my eyes and moan happily.

"You seem to have issues with losing control," I gasp when able, and am rewarded by his teeth at my neck.

"Turn over."

I'm not given the chance to obey. He shoves me off of him and onto my hands and knees, pulling me by the hips until I'm positioned the way he wants. I experience a moment of conflict: on the one hand, I'm perfectly pleased at the idea of being bedded now, but on the other, I really had intended on exploring him more thoroughly.

But then fingers slip between my legs, and I understand that we are not yet done. I almost prevent myself from groaning in ecstasy as two of his fingers rub at an exceptionally sensitive spot, then remember that there is no longer a need for silence. The noise he draws from me affects me almost as much as it appears to him, and with a low growl he enters me with those fingers. He appears startled that this is accomplished so effortlessly, and I flush as I realize that this is a result from wearing his clothes and his smell for the entire day.

For a moment my nerves war between soreness and pleasure, but pleasure wins over and leaves me half-collapsed on the ground, hips thrust toward him as his fingers deftly work within me. Again and again I groan, until he's breathing raggedly behind me. A curious part of me wants to be taken like this, but he has made me so frantic that I can't wait for him to take the initiative. I gather my strength and spring on him, returning him to his back and myself to just over his thighs.

"You shall drive me mad if you keep that up," I pant, and take him into my hand. My thumb slides over his tip experimentally, and he sags back against the ground, lost to pleasure. "Can I take you like this?"

He pants a few times before finding his voice. "Yes, though it may be uncomfortable for you."

"That again?" I rise to my knees and position myself over him, because my nerves are telling me that if I wait any longer I might die. His hips arch up as I bear down upon him, and soon he is within me again. I toss my head back and groan in relief, waiting for my nerves to stop reminding me that I'm sore and focus instead on the pleasure I'm also experiencing.

When I open my eyes, I find him watching me. His hands slide to my hips and encourage me to lift and press down upon him again. I do so, and take my weight on my hands as my knees go weak with glee. I'm torn between wanting to set a faster pace and uncertainty that I would have the ability to maintain it without overwhelming myself. Duncan seems to sense the problem and goads me on by teasing at my nipples with his fingers. His dark eyes meet mine, and I realize just how badly I want to hear him panting beneath me. That thought is encouragement enough to increase the pace.

We begin groaning at the same time, and to my surprise he links his fingers in mine and pulls me over for a kiss. I refuse to be dissuaded from our rhythm, however, and am rewarded by him moaning into my mouth. He locks my hands in his and keeps my mouth in reach of him as he begins to thrust upward to meet me. I lose concentration and find myself holding still so that he might set his own speed, and he uses this moment of distraction to guide me onto my side.

My left calf is taken and rested on his shoulder, and he pulls my thigh toward him before re-entering me with a growl. My lungs welcome this break, and so I give in and allow him to take over as he so desperately wishes. Duncan brings our speed almost to the point of pain, and I hear my voice encouraging him as I succumb to his control. His teeth bare in concentration as I give up attempting to keep the desperate tinge from my voice.

After a short pause to prevent my sated nerves from being overwhelmed, Duncan shifts me onto my back and eases himself between my legs. I wrap my arms around his waist and enjoy the salty taste of his skin and the noises he makes above me. I especially love the sound biting him elicits—a deep rumble in the back of his throat, which I both hear and feel. He finishes with his mouth beside my ear, groaning and muttering half-formed words that make my pulse race once I realize that my name is among them.

He collapses atop of me, and I enjoy his warmth and the smell of the earth surrounding us. There's a branch digging into the small of my back, and based upon the way he grimaces as he shifts to his side he has scuffed his knees, but these details do nothing to lessen the waves of satisfaction washing over me. I press myself against his side and try not to smile when his fingers find their way back into my hair.

"I just realized that I have no idea where we are headed."

Duncan makes a displeased sound. "You ignore me all day, then discuss business after exhausting me. Are you always this cruel?"

This time a small smile _does_ cross my lips. "Yes. I am finding it difficult to be angry at you in the present moment, and so we should talk."

"Let an old man sleep."

"You are hardly _old,_ Duncan."

"Two nights of this, paired with my carrying you unconscious for hours, and then traveling on foot in full armor after a battle makes me feel inclined to disagree with you."

I feel suddenly guilty for my earlier hysterics. "I am sorry." As soon as the words escape I flush; they are not ones that I'm accustomed to speaking.

He sighs and turns over onto his back, reaching idly for one of his shirts. It appears to be the one I was wearing, but he pulls it over his head all the same. "We are traveling south to Ostagar, where the rest of the Grey Wardens wait with King Cailan. Darkspawn are massing in the Wilds, and we hope to defeat them there."

"We shall reunite with my brother, then. I... do not relish the thought of telling him he is now the teyrn."

Duncan pauses. "We will be sure to tell the king of Arl Howe's treachery. He will not let such wrongdoing go unpunished."

"I would rather take vengeance myself."

"That is no longer yours to take. At Ostagar you shall be inducted into the Wardens, and your brother will be left to see to the Cousland estate."

"I would not be nearly as conflicted by your words if my parents were still living," I sigh, and rise to look for clothing to fight off the chill of the night.

"You will not be the only Warden with injustice in your past," he muses. "This path suits you." I pull on his other shirt and then sink back to the ground beside him. "We shall see."

Duncan doesn't answer me, and is soon breathing deeply, so I assume that he has fallen asleep again. But he turns to face me as I am drifting somewhere between exhaustion and dreams, throwing an arm around me and tucking my head beneath his chin. I snake my unpinned arm along his waist and allow myself to relax into his neck, enjoying the warmth of his skin.


	3. Hard Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is AO.

I manage to seduce Duncan again at dawn, before we begin the next portion of our walk, though I soon regret the decision. Muscles that aren't accustomed to being used spend the day shrieking at me with each step I take and each bloody stone that I trip on. By nightfall I'm in agony, and pass the evening curled in upon myself, sore—and very hungry. Somehow, life as a Warden seemed more glamorous in the tales.

Absolon takes pity on us sometime after dusk and returns to camp with a hare, which Duncan is polite enough to split into three equal portions. He appears to be used to working with mabari, which pleases my hound. Duncan considers saving the bones for broth, but after receiving a few pointed growls hands them over without protest.

"Bones are his due for hunting," I mutter from the pain-wracked ball I've resumed near the fire. "That is how we trained them in our kennels."

"A fair trade." Those are the only words we speak, as I'm too tired to remain awake, but I feel him lie down beside me at some point in the night and take me in his arms.

"Would you stand watch for us, Absolon?" he murmurs, and I hear my dog snort and rise to his feet.

"He tends not to listen to anyone else," I say, and smile smugly as Duncan starts; he must have believed me still asleep.

"He is worried about you. You need rest."

"Mmmm." I press my back into Duncan's chest and feel him sigh against my ear.

"Please let me rest. It is a bad idea for us to continue doing this."

"As you like," I yawn, and feel him curl more tightly around me.

He lasts another night before I wake to his lips upon my neck. This time I allow him to guide us, out of a worry that any hint of dominance from me will encourage him to change his mind, but he doesn't seem to regret his change of heart as we lie together afterward.

Eventually, he speaks. "Would the Arl of Redcliffe know you by sight?" His fingers thread through my hair as I rest with my face against his chest, listening to him breathe.

"In your clothing, and covered in road dust? Unlikely, though I am certain his wife would."

Duncan notices the small smile I'm giving his chest and sighs. "What have you done to the arlessa?"

"Oh, there was an incident at a salon. It seemed a triviality at the time, but I have since been told that Isolde never forgets the face of an enemy." When he sighs again, I ask him why it's important.

"We need supplies if we are going to be of any use once we reach Ostagar. A single rabbit among three hungry warriors is insufficient. We are near Redcliffe, but I do not wish risking anyone recognizing you. Arl Howe may believe you dead, and that works to our favor."

"I was hoping for a bath, but I can spend the day outside of town with Absolon, if you like."

"That may be best, though it will be difficult to clothe you properly. You also need armor, and a tent."

"A tent?" Thus far I've been perfectly comfortable spending the night in his arms, all the branches and stones aside. We have been lucky that it hasn't rained.

"You are currently the only female Warden in Ferelden. We have nowhere to put you."

"So I shall sleep in your tent," I laugh, but Duncan doesn't smile.

"That will not be possible." I'm not prepared for the hardness in his words, and as I pull away, he sighs and half-rises from the ground to better see me. "Evelyn, I am the senior Warden. You must consider appearances."

"I have spent my _life_ considering appearances, Warden. I do not need a lesson from the likes of you."

"Get down here," he frowns, and when I attempt to move away he pulls me off of my feet with one arm. "I would _prefer_ to have you in my tent, but... there are potential complications that you do not yet understand."

"Explain them to me."

"I will, at your initiation." He pulls me against him once more, and I settle back onto the ground.

"...May I at least _visit_ your tent?"

"Indeed you may, if you promise to let me sleep occasionally."

"If I must." At these words, the last of the hardness in his expression fades, and I conclude that he had simply been worried that I would be unwilling to practice subtlety among the other Wardens. Which is mildly insulting: I was aware of the danger that the discovery that he had bedded me would put him in within the walls of my castle, so why would it be so difficult to grasp there might be similar repercussions for the head of the order to sleep with a new recruit? I consider pointing this out, but his breathing has already deepened, and I'm not petty enough to wake him over injured pride.

Though as we actually _reach_ Ostagar, the hardness returns, and he leads us up the path after putting a greater distance between us than was kept even at our first meeting. This is a poor decision, as any observant person will realize instantly the very thing that he's attempting to hide. I consider warning him, but am promptly distracted by an unsettling thought.

"Duncan, you do not already have a lover here, do you?"

He snorts. "Do not be ridiculous."

"Then wh—"

"Hail, King Cailan!" He drowns my voice out like my Nan used to when she thought I was being impertinent at dinner, and I look up to find the young king approaching. I've never seen him in armor, but his confidence does the look credit. My own leathers, though new, don't give me nearly as imposing an appearance. In their plate, the two men positively loom.

"Duncan, I was beginning to worry that you'd miss all the fun!" The two men clasp wrists briefly.

"Not if I could help it, Majesty." Cailan's eyes find my own, and Duncan continues: "Allow me to introduce—"

"Maker's breath, we need no introduction! Evelyn, Fergus told me that you wouldn't be joining us!" He seems genuinely pleased to see me, and I watch Duncan's expression tighten with a small amount of amusement; surely he'd known that there would be no keeping my identity secret once we were in a camp full of nobles! Here, I will be recognized wherever I go.

"She is to become a Grey Warden of my order."

"And she will serve you well, I have no doubt of that."

Cailan's words bring back the turmoil that attempted to consume me on my first two nights in the wilderness. "Highness, I am also here to relay terrible news to my brother. Do you know where I might find him?"

"He and his men are out scouting in the Wilds, I'm afraid. Why, what is the matter?"

I feel my voice threatening to crack and take a deep breath. I'm stronger than this. "Arl Howe attacked us as soon as my brother left with our troops. My father and mother were murdered, and the castle has fallen."

The easy smile that typically dominates Cailan's face fades first into concern, and then anger. "Arl Howe...? How did he hope to get away with this? Evelyn, as soon as this battle is finished, I will turn my full attention to this, and we will see that justice is done." He rests a hand on my shoulder, and I blink back angry tears.

"Thank you, your Majesty."

"I hate to cut this short, especially after such news, but Loghain appears to believe that this is a battle requiring _strategy_ , and seeks to bore me with it until I am of a mind to beg the darkspawn to overrun my tent and end my misery. You do know how he can be, don't you, Evie?" He grins like the boy I used to play soldier with when he uses my nickname.

I smile my mother's smile. It's widely known that the Couslands have a rather strong opinion regarding Teyrn Loghain. "Indeed I do, your Majesty."

When Cailan is gone, I take several deep breaths to steady myself, but it's Duncan's turn to insist that I be stiff and formal, and I find myself missing the freedom I'd grown accustomed to quite accidentally while in the wilderness. I'm instructed to tour the camp, if I wish, but not to leave it, and to seek out a man named Alistair as soon as possible so that we might begin the initiation with the other recruits.

"There are other recruits?"

Duncan nods. "Two others. Meet them, if you wish. I shall be at my tent. Absolon, if you would follow me?" And so he walks away, oblivious to the fact that I neither know where his tent is, nor what this Alistair looks like or where he might be. My hound whines, but follows, likely drawn by the smell of food. Traitorous beast.

Very well. The camp is clearly across the bridge, but I choose to spend time exploring the ruins on this side, where it's relatively quiet. Ostagar was built high, and so I'm granted a stunning view as I perch on a crumbled pillar and allow the wind to whip my hair about my face. I expected that the scenery would soothe me, but instead I find myself crying harder than I've allowed myself to in years. I dread telling my brother the news. Not only our parents, but his wife and son, murdered, and now he's Teyrn Cousland. He won't wish to rule without his little sister to help. He has always been at his most certain with me to support him; when he did something foolish growing up, Mother always knew to punish _me_.

My tears cease with a shaky sigh, and I dry my eyes angrily. No. I'm no child, and neither is my brother. I'll become a Grey Warden and protect my people from the darkspawn invasion, and he'll return to our castle with the king and reclaim what is ours by blood. Father and Mother died to make me a Warden, and it is my duty, now, to live up to their sacrifice. I leap down from the pillar and stride across the bridge, intent on finding Alistair, the tent, and the other two bloody recruits among half of Ferelden's army.

The soldiers are polite enough to ignore my puffy eyes and blotched skin, but as I pass the mage's camp, a white-haired woman calls out to me. "You are one of the new recruits of the Wardens, are you not?"

I have every intention of smiling the affirmative and continuing on my way, but to my surprise I find myself stopped to talk with her. We speak of nothing of consequence, and she soon sends me on my way as though _I_ was the one who decided to waste our time, but as I continue down the thoroughfare I realize that I feel more composed. Why the mage had taken pity on me and sought to distract me, I don't know, but I'm grateful for it, because when I accidentally stumble across Alistair, I'm a semblance of myself again.

I recognize the symbol on his shield, and am halfway to calling his name before I realize that he's speaking with another mage, who appears far less friendly than the woman who had just consoled me. The conversation doesn't appear to be going well, and as I approach I hear Alistair muttering something about grumpy children. The other man storms off, clearly offended, and the Warden catches sight of me.

"Shoot the messenger, just because you don't like who sent the message. It's amazing how a Blight just brings everyone together, isn't it?"

I blink, then smile despite myself. Another man who speaks my language. "Yes, it is inspiring to see."

He must not have been expecting a reply, because it's his turn to appear surprised. I stand before him and adopt the smile that I reserve for friendly introductions. "You are Alistair, correct?"

"Yes, but if you're looking to have a message delivered to the mages, I quit." When I shake my head, he looks at me more carefully. "No, wait a minute, you're the third recruit! Ev...Evelyn! I should have recognized you instantly."

"Oh?"

"Duncan wrote ahead and told me what to expect." 

While he was in Redcliffe and I was insufferably bored among the trees, no doubt. "Somehow I doubt that."

He raises an eyebrow. "Oh, I don't know. He said that we'd get along, and that's a red flag, right there. I have a knack for getting under people's skin. Duncan says we're all supposed to work together during a Blight, so the Chantry and the Circle have been quite happily taking advantage of that fact to use me against each other since I arrived."

I find his sarcasm refreshing, and so risk answering in kind. "Surely your charm isn't _that_ well-known."

"Sadly, no. It's because of what I can do, not who I am. I used to be a Templar, you see, so the revered mother has been delighting in sending me to summon mages to her."

"Yes, I can see how that might cause insult." And I wouldn't put it past a single revered mother I've ever met to act similarly at any chance she was given, either, but one doesn't say such things to a Templar one has just met. "If you were a Templar, how did Duncan get you?"

"He conscripted me, actually, and I'll always owe him for that. I love being a Grey Warden." Alistair smiles happily. "I get to be the one that helps you out during the Joining, actually, so why don't we walk and talk? Duncan likes saving time." He gestures back the way I came, and I fall into step beside him and allow him to lead me toward what I assume must be the Wardens' section of the camp.

"Yes, that he does. I take it you like him, then?" Alistair nods. "He's a good man. Why, do you not?"

This question makes it clear that Duncan's letter was far from explicit. I assume that if Alistair doesn't know, then no one in the order will. Perhaps that's for the best. "No, I do. He can be... overbearing, but he is kind, and he means well."

My companion's smile turns genuine. I appear to have passed a test. "He gets little recognition for what's actually a very difficult task. Duncan is single-handedly rebuilding the order in Ferelden. We were banned for a while, you know."

Of course I know. It's still recent history, and caused quite a stir when Cailan's father restored them. Every noble I know grew up listening to the decision being discussed over dinner, and my father was more vocal about his support than most. "I do remember hearing about that, yes."

"Well, you'll meet us all later. I mean, if— after the Joining, I mean. You'll be the only woman, I'm afraid. We've never had many female Wardens."

My smile turns malicious. "Would you prefer more women, then?"

"Well, naturally," he replies, then begins to stammer as he catches my expression. "I'm not a lecher. It just seems... unequal. The Wardens take all races, and both genders, but that's not well-represented here in Ferelden just yet."

I laugh and shake my head. "I think that I am going to enjoy traveling with you, Alistair."

"What, really?" He stops walking and stares at me, completely at a loss. "I... don't usually hear that."

"Duncan did warn you that we'd get along, you know. He is a good judge of character."

Alistair agrees with me, then indicates another recruit who appears to be harassing a female soldier. "Except with this one, maybe. Still not sure why he got recruited. Meet him, if you dare. I'll stand watch."

His reservations are well-founded: Daveth is not only paranoid, but also a womanizer. I attempt to be polite regardless, as we'll be working together indefinitely from this point forward, and I'd been trained at nothing so well as being friendly to those I despise. However, when I suggest that we would get by through watching each other's backs, he cracks my composure.

"Oh, sure, I'll watch your back." The words are paired with a gentle pat to my backside, and I feel blood rushing to my face and nearly draw my knives. No one has _ever dared—_

No. I breathe, and my smile snaps back into place. I've already been knocked unconscious by the man I'm bedding. Comparatively, what is some groping among friends? "You... are very charming."

Daveth smiles. "That's me."

I take my leave then, and return to Alistair with shaking hands. "I have a sudden urge to ask the mages to put a ward on my tent."

His cheeks turn scarlet. "Wait until after the Joining. He might, well—let's wait."

"What an insufferable man."

The other recruit is named Ser Jory, and is apparently a knight from Redcliffe, which puts me instantly at ease. Alistair leaves to bring him to the camp while I speak with the kennel master to pass the time.

Many of the mabari in his care are sick from ingesting darkspawn blood. I have a brief moment of panic when I think of Absolon following me into battle, but the man is more than happy to share the treatment, and so I leave feeling somewhat less worried about my hound's well-being.

But after we've gathered before Duncan and I spend several minutes listening to him speak, yet meet all eyes save my own, I become angry. This is not what I would call subtlety. I listen, in any case, and am pleased to discover that we shall be venturing into the Wilds, slaughtering darkspawn, and collecting vials of their blood for the Joining.

That's... _odd_. Though I suppose it's a test, and the blood proof that we have passed.

There's also the matter of collecting old scrolls, but as that is a task for Alistair, I allow my mind to wander. I desperately desire a bath. And part of me hopes to encounter my brother while I'm in the field, but I know the size of the Wilds too well to have much faith that it will happen.

"Alistair, watch over your charges," Duncan finishes. "I want them to return quickly, and safely." When our guide nods in compliance, Duncan turns his dark eyes to me. "Maker watch over your path. I shall see you when you return."

"Well," Daveth mutters from beside me. "Looks like we've found the favorite."

"Daveth, you will do well to remember that watching my back is a _silent_ task."

This quiets him until Ser Jory begins insisting that one of us should be elected group leader. I suggest Alistair, as he's the only non-recruit, and am told that he's along to make sure we don't die, "not to make things easy for you."

"I vote we let the lady lead," Daveth leers, and the knight agrees by the reasoning that he would "rather the lady than the thief."

By the time we actually reach the gate, I'm growing tired of my fellow recruits, but once we enter the Wilds they cease speaking and begin fighting. Alistair proves to be an excellent swordsman, and the three of them appear surprised at my finesse with my blades, which I pretend not to notice. But as soon as we discover our first darkspawn, the knight reveals himself as a coward and begins lamenting that it is dangerous, and that we should turn back. I grit my teeth, collect my blood, and do my best to ignore him. Alistair finally silences him with assurances that _he_ can sense the darkspawn, which is why he's along in the first place, and we continue on our merry way.

Daveth and Alistair remain good-natured and fearless until in our search for the documents Alistair is meant to recover we stumble across not darkspawn, but a woman, in the most ridiculous robes that I've ever seen. Any idiot would be able to tell that she's an apostate mage, and so of course my comrades begin insulting her. Alistair calls her a savage, and then Daveth accuses her of being a witch.

Thankfully, she finds their panic amusing, and soon ignores them in favor of a conversation with me, and seems almost relieved that I prove more sensible than my stuttering companions. I manage to trade names and prevent further insult, and as a reward Morrigan tells me that her mother has been protecting the documents.

"Stole them, is more like it," Alistair mutters, and all of my work is nearly undone. Thankfully, Morrigan again decides that he is amusing, and we're able to move forward.

"May I see your mother, then?" I ask, and ignore Daveth's sniveling that this is a poor course of action. I'm rather surprised, in fact, that he manages to maintain his instincts for self-preservation while in the presence of a woman clad in such revealing clothes. But we need the documents, according to Duncan, and I'm not foolish enough to fight with a woman comfortable with traveling alone in the wilderness in the hopes of obtaining them.

"I like you," she muses, and I can't help but smile. "Yes, follow me, and you shall meet my mother."

Her mother is old, and exceedingly insane, but has the documents that Alistair was tasked to bring, and we're allowed to return to camp with them in hand after a very little conversation. Morrigan doesn't seem particularly sad to see the men go, and her mother wishes me luck as we depart, which leaves me with a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Back at camp, I would love nothing more than to collapse on a bedroll and eat a meal, but Duncan insists on beginning the Joining ceremony immediately after we are removed of our armor and the worst of the blood spatters wiped away. He speaks exclusively to Alistair, and refuses to meet my eyes, even as I present the vial of blood that I've collected. We are led to a ruined temple in an unused area of Ostagar, and a glance from Alistair to Duncan causes the cold feeling I brought back with me from the Wilds to spread: both men are tense, shoulders squared. This is no simple test. I think back to the blood that we've collected, and the sick mabari, and to Alistair's ability to sense darkspawn, and feel suddenly sick. No, surely not.

One look at Duncan's face confirms it: his eyes are narrow and cold, his jaw tight. Beside him is a chalice, and as we shift nervously from side to side, he explains just how Wardens are made.

Daveth takes it remarkably well, and I'm left wondering what sort of life he came from that risking death is something about which he can be so cavalier. Ser Jory, on the other hand, begins to panic, and I see Alistair take a hand to his blade.

"There is no turning back," Duncan says, holding the cup out to Daveth. "Drink, and fate will decide if you succumb to the taint of the darkspawn now... or later."

He drinks, which I expect. What I don't expect is for him to shriek and writhe, curling up on the stones at my feet, gasping and foaming from the corners of his mouth. By the time I realize that he's dead, Ser Jory has backed against a nearby pillar.

"I am sorry, Daveth." Duncan turns toward Ser Jory next, though I'm standing closer. When he presents the chalice, the knight draws his blade.

"No! No!"

I expect that Duncan will placate him, or perhaps turn to me and give him a chance to calm himself. Instead, he draws his knife and plunges it into Ser Jory's chest. I tense, thinking to step forward and prevent him from murdering a terrified man, but see Alistair's eyes, pinned on me, and reconsider. Duncan's first blow was a death stroke, in any case, and as the knight slumps to the cobblestones beside me, gasping his last breaths, he again takes the cup into his hands.

"You could have warned me while we were on the road. I deserved time to prepare myself." I don't look at Daveth, or Jory, because if I do I might be unable to go through with this. Duncan might have gotten away with knocking me unconscious, but I'm not about to allow him to stab me in the gut for hesitating when offered a cup of tainted blood.

He shakes his head. "You would not have agreed to go through with it." Our eyes meet, and I recognize his expression; the last time I saw it, he was preparing to tear me from my mother's side.

"Just give me the cup," I hiss, and hold out my hands.

Duncan stares at me for a moment, and then presses the chalice against my palms. The blood inside is cold, and thick, and dark, and smells rancid. I drink, and the instant the liquid hits my tongue my body insists that something is amiss. My heart rate increases, and I feel sweat beading on my forehead, but it isn't until I force a sip down that I feel the pain. The cup clatters from my grasp, and I stumble and gag so hard that I can't breathe. My muscles are knotting, and my stomach burns—

Is this it, then? I wish that I could have seen my brother. But Duncan's voice sounds, pulling my mind from turmoil. "Welcome, Grey Warden."

I attempt to speak, and stand, but my vision fails, and someone's arms catch me as the world heaves and rushes toward me with a howl.

 

~*-*~

 

I'm growing tired of coming to with an aching head, draped across the ground like old linens on laundry day. Alistair and Duncan are standing above me, and as I focus on them something akin to relief appears to cross both of their faces.

"Can you stand?" asks Alistair, sinking to his knees beside me.

"Must I?" Something is wrong with my voice. It's sore, as though from over-use.

"Alistair, get her to her feet." Duncan turns and stares down the path as the Templar takes me around the waist and drags me upward. I stumble once and am rewarded with a face full of plate armor before I manage to steady myself. His hands rest on my shoulders until we are certain that I'm standing under my own power.

"How long was I unconscious?" I ask. Daveth and Ser Jory's bodies have disappeared. Alistair notes the direction of my gaze, but answers my spoken question rather than the unspoken one.

"Long enough to make my ears hurt. You're good at screaming, did you know that?"

"My older brother used to steal my toys," I sniff, extricating a leaf from a tangle in my hair. "Of course I am."

"How are you feeling?"

"I am fine."

Alistair shakes his head. "Of course you are. Here." Something metallic dangles from his fingers. I hold out my hand and he deposits a necklace into my palm.

"Blood, from the Joining. So that you always remember those who didn't make it."

"Thank you." I clasp it around my neck and drop it beneath my shirt, where it rests atop my collarbone. Ser Jory and Daveth hadn't deserved to die in such a fashion; I doubted that I would soon forget the manner of their passing. Even still, it was a kind gesture.

He frowns. "Two recruits lost. This was not the best Joining I've witnessed."

"Do you generally lose more of us to the blood, or to Duncan?"

Alistair stares at me in shock, and Duncan whirls. "The two of you may speak later. Evelyn, the king has requested you accompany me to tonight's meeting with the teyrn."

Typical of Cailan. "The king shall have to do without my company. I require rest."

"You will do as he commands."

"I rather think that we might need to talk before you force me out into public with you again."

"That can wait. I will meet you there." With that, Duncan stalks off into the gloom.

"Of all the—"

"You'd better do as he says," Alistair chuckles. "If you don't, the king might get upset, and then he'd cry, and you'd feel simply awful."

"Nonsense. Cailan used to make _me_ cry when I was a little girl," I mutter, and walk off while Alistair stares at me in confusion.

"I'll see you both back at camp, then!" he calls, then walks back toward the fires, where the breeze smells like supper. Duncan seems to be under the impression that Wardens do not _eat_ , but I find myself starving as I follow him to the meeting.

By the end, I'm still not sure why I was summoned. Perhaps Cailan simply wanted another familiar face in the ranks, or perhaps he wanted me there when we discussed exactly what my role in tomorrow's battle would be. Duncan and the Wardens were to meet the darkspawn on the front lines, alongside the king. But I? I was to stay behind from the fight, and _light a signal_ when given the order.

All of this, and I'm still not being allowed to fight alongside my comrades. Even as a Warden, I'm being left behind to guard the tower while others risk their lives. Worse, Duncan agrees to this idiot plan without complaint. As though I were not already angry at him for trying to kill me.

After the meeting has concluded, I wish for nothing more than to return to camp and collapse on something soft and passably clean, but Cailan calls me aside, and Duncan takes the opportunity to leave without me. The king wishes to tell me again how sorry he is about my family, which after the trials of the day brings me to tears. I excuse myself and walk back toward Duncan's tent; I want to find Absolon and go for a walk. But the Warden is waiting for me when I arrive, with his dark hair and eyes, and brooding features, and within seconds my grief has turned to rage. This man allowed my father to die, took me from my mother, and then made me a Warden, knowing all the while that the process would likely kill me?

Alistair catches my expression as I step into the ring of firelight and swallows the greeting he had been about to give me. I ignore him completely and fix my eyes on Duncan. His armor is off, which makes him appear less threatening than he has felt to me for the entire day.

"You _bastard_ son of a whore!" I shriek, stepping in close and lashing out.

I'm quick enough to catch him in the face with my right hand. I'm _not_ quick enough to pull back before he has me by the wrist and is twisting, attempting to pull me off-balance. I step with the motion and keep my feet and left arm free. Alistair shouts in surprise and moves toward us, intending to defend his senior Warden, for whom he somehow still manages to hold the greatest respect. They're both thinking like swordsmen, and so assume that immobilizing my main hand has left me helpless.

My dagger flashes in the firelight, and Alistair halts mere inches from its tip. "Come any closer, and I swear I will cut that pretty face of yours."

"You know, some day a girl is going to call me pretty, but she won't be pointing a knife at me while she does it." The Templar takes three steps backward and tilts his head. "Where did you say you found her, Duncan?"

"Highever." I feel his voice against my back as he pins me to his stomach.

"Let's... not recruit from there in the future, I think."

"If you wish to talk, there are less dramatic ways to obtain my attention." Duncan twists my arm and grabs my other wrist, bringing me to my knees in front of him. Pain sears through my arms, and I curse at him as the dagger falls from my hand.

"First you knock me out in my own home and drag me half-naked across the country, then you try to kill me, and now you're breaking my arms the night before a battle?" I glare up at him, and he pulls me to my feet, making no attempt to prevent the action from causing my wrists more pain.

"Alistair, take a walk."

"I-I... walk? Walk where?"

Duncan points away from the fire, and so Alistair leaves our company accordingly.

"Into my tent, were we may at least pretend to have privacy." He gestures that I am to walk before him, and so I do, though I'm reluctant to leave my blade lying in the dirt. It had been a gift from my father.

Duncan draws the tent flap shut behind us and shoves me down onto a bedroll on the right-hand side. I land on my smarting wrist and bite back a cry. He stands before me, and I realize with a mixture of glee and regret that I've angered him.

"I will only say this once: if you ever draw on a Warden again, I will chain you and leave you at the mercy of the next person to cross your path. Do you understand?"

I already feel terrible for threatening Alistair, and so I nod.

"As for the Joining ceremony..." He sinks to the ground in front of me. "It is forbidden for Wardens to tell recruits. And you would not have agreed, no matter what you say to me now. No one who is given the knowledge ever does."

"Is that why you murdered Ser Jory?"

"His death was... regrettable," Duncan replies. "I shall have to ask the arl to look after his family. But he would have told others of the nature of the Joining, and the order would have suffered as a result."

"You are despicable."

He shakes his head. "What of those soldiers you killed at your castle? Most of them were normal men, with families, just like Ser Jory."

"I was defending my _family_!"

"The Grey Wardens are my family. I do what I must to protect them. You are now included in that," he adds quietly.

"So you bedded me each day for a week and then poisoned me to _protect_ me?"

"That... was a poor decision, as I tried to make clear. I am sorry. Had I known that you would be inducted rather than Ser Gilmore, I would not have allowed you to seduce me."

"... _Allowed_ me to—"

He takes me by my weakened wrists and attempts to pull me close. "Enough, Evie."

"Enough? You do not _care,_ and—"

I'm silenced by him seizing my shoulders and pressing his mouth to mine. My eyes widen in shock, but his close heavily as one of his hands snakes its way into my hair to hold me still against him.

Father once used this tactic on Mother when they were having a debate in the main hall after dinner. I remember being absolutely disgusted that it worked. I vowed to myself then and there that if a man ever attempted something similar on me, I would hit him. But I didn't then understand how exhausting it is to be angry, and how quickly a kiss can stoke that panicked feeling of desire in the pit of one's stomach. And Duncan's scent is soothing; it reminds me of how relaxed I felt in his arms on the road, so before I'm quite aware of it I've pressed against him, seeking warmth and comfort despite my fury.

 _Bastard_. I seize his lower lip in my teeth and bite down with enough strength to make his eyes water. His gaze locks on mine, and I'm pleased to discover that he is angry again. I succeed in biting his neck once before he shoves me over onto his bedding, splaying my legs and locking my arms above my head. Left with no other means with which to retaliate, I grind my hips against him, and am rewarded by the sight of the anger in his eyes disappearing beneath a haze of need. He manages to keep both of my hands pinned, yet pull my trousers and smalls toward my knees in a single motion. I would feel impressed if the action hadn't left me so vulnerable. All the same, I kick my clothes off the rest of the way. _Never start something that you don't intend to finish, pup. It sends the wrong message_.

We're in a tent, in the middle of an army camp. Discretion is necessary, but as soon as he begins to bite at my neck with more force than I'm accustomed to, I hear myself goading him on with my voice. The pain in my wrist fades as I press my chest to his and wrap my legs around his hips. He presses against me needily, and I feel hardness and heat through his trousers and groan.

Duncan releases my hands to slide them beneath my shirt, seeking my breasts, and has almost teased me into complacency before I remember that he's a bastard son of a whore and tried to kill me only a few hours previously. I take him by his ponytail and tug as hard as I can with my weakened wrist. He snarls and pins my hands above my head once more.

"Childish," he snaps.

"Thoughtless," I retort.

"As you like." He pulls my shirt over my head with one arm and pins it behind my head, which effectively locks my arms in their present position. My protests are halted by Duncan's tongue as he, now confident of the relative safety of his scalp, shifts down to my legs and buries his face between my thighs. My body is insisting that nothing he has done has ever felt as good as this, and I'm left too uncoordinated to remove the bloody shirt and continue my attack. Instead, my eyes close despite all my efforts, and I find myself bucking against his face and moaning encouragingly.

For once he appears to be as impatient as I, and it's not long before he flips me onto my stomach and drags my hips toward him. I am left on my knees, struggling to free my arms from my shirt, as he loosens his trousers and allows them to fall from his waist. I brace myself out of habit, but as he enters me there is no discomfort, and so I bury my face in his bedding and give an encouraging whine.

Duncan has become used to beginning gently with me, but when he hears the desperate tinge in my voice that I despise even more than usual, his thrusts gain more force, and I find it necessary to push back against him to keep from being shoved over by his enthusiasm. My wrists aren't up to the task of supporting me and resisting his movements, so I'm forced to fall to my elbows.

The way he breathes is fascinating; each exhale is almost a gasp, with his low voice just barely making itself heard underneath. The clearer his sounds, the louder I hear myself responding, and soon we're groaning in time with one another. I want to kiss him, to rake my nails down his back and sink my teeth into his shoulder, but the best I can do is turn my head and watch his face as he thrusts. His mouth is open, his eyes closed, face seeming somehow relieved and desperate at the same time.

I can't—

My head drops, and I knot my fingers into the bedding, so overwhelmed that I collapse beneath him, and we both end up on the ground. Duncan shifts me to my back and eases his pillow under my hips before entering me again. I clutch at his forearms, all desire to injure him gone, as he brings his face to mine and continues at a more sensible pace. His mouth roams across my neck, to my ear, and then finally meets my own. I can feel his chest heaving, and the warmth of his skin, and am again afflicted by the hope that he will never stop.

But he does. His fingers brush through the hair at my ear as his thumb caresses my cheek, and as I smile as he so clearly wishes me to, he finishes with a gasp. Almost instantly I'm glad that he did stop, after all; my body is complaining that it s exhausted, and my wrists ache to the point of distraction because of their injury during our fight.

Which I had nearly forgotten about. More likely than not, that was his hope. I lie with my eyes closed and allow him to shift the pillows and blankets until we are in something more akin to a real bed than I have felt since our first night together. He draws me to his chest and wraps me in his arms with a sigh, and for a moment my anger resurfaces before it is smothered by relaxation.

"You are still a bastard," I whisper.

His fingers find my hair, and I feel him give a deep sigh. "Do you want to know why I had to drop your armor when I carried you?"

"Because you are a lecher, as well as a bastard?"

"It was either that, or drop your family's sword and shield. If you... if the Joining had gone poorly, I was intending to give them to your brother."

I want to cry again, but I'm too tired, so instead I give in and encourage his arms to encircle me. "I had forgotten about them entirely."

"Should I have left them?"

I shake my head and nestle against him more fully, allowing his warmth to fend off the grief welling within my chest. "No. Thank you. I will be glad to have them."

I'm almost dreaming when his voice sounds again. "Evie?"

"Mmmm?"

His arms tighten around me, and he kisses me until he's certain that he has my attention again. "Since you are now a Warden, I will be able to tell you something else that has been bothering me."

I yawn. "What, are you married?"

Duncan snorts.

"Are you planning on poisoning me again in the near future?"

"Evelyn."

I feel instantly foolish. "Yes, sorry."

"Not tomorrow," he says, "because we will be spending the day preparing for battle, but afterward. You shall meet the other Wardens and then I will tell you everything else that you need to know."

"I believe you."

"Excellent," he breathes, burying his face in my hair. "Now go to sleep."


	4. Calling Me Back Home

I'm uncertain of how much later it is when a petulant voice from outside the tent draws me into consciousness once more. "Look, I'm really tired, and I'm running out of places to walk. Can I _please_ sleep now?"

Duncan doesn't stir, so I turn in his arms and look toward the entrance of the tent. "Come in, Alistair."

"Oh," he says, then halts the instant he enters the tent and continues on in a lower voice. " _Oh_. I thought you were.... Um, I'm not... disturbing anything, am I?"

I shake my head. "I would sleep in my own tent, but I have no idea how to assemble it myself. May I stay in here with you and Duncan?"

Alistair unstraps his sword and sinks onto his bedding with a heavy sigh. "Sure. He and I _usually_ share a bedroll, you know, but I guess I'll just have one to myself tonight." When I smile, he leans toward me and stretches out his hand. "Here's, ah. Here's your knife back, by the way."

I draw the blanket around my chest so that I might take my dagger back without exposing too much skin. "Thank you. I am sorry."

He chuckles softly and begins removing his boots. "Most people threaten me in the first ten minutes of meeting me, so I think we're doing pretty well." Those removed, he collapses onto his back with a happy sound and partially disappears into the gloom of the tent.

"I have been on my best behavior, if you must know."

"How lucky for me." I hear him roll onto his side, facing me, and his voice becomes clearer. "You're  _fast_. I haven't seen someone land a blow on Duncan in, well. Ever, actually."

"I am beginning to believe that he lets me get away with a great deal." I run my hand along the forearm Duncan has wrapped around my waist and trust that Alistair cannot see the motion.

"Yeah, I'm getting that impression." There's a pause, and then I hear him laugh nervously and toss a shirt over onto Duncan's side of the tent. "And I also just realized that you're probably naked under there, so I think I'll turn around while we chat, if that's—"

"Alistair," Duncan growls sleepily, "I'm pleased that the two of you are bonding, but if you keep her talking, I will send you both on a walk until dawn. Let an old man rest."

I giggle and turn back toward his chest as Alistair mutters, "Right. Not talking, then."

It's surprising how easily I sleep with him in the tent alongside us, but I conclude in the morning that my body needed the rest. I wake alone, reclaim my clothing and strap myself into my armor, and step back out into the sunlight.

First things first: my wrists need seen to. I seek out the white-haired mage from yesterday, who luckily informs me that she is a healer, and sets me right again in seconds. She sends me on my way feeling better than I have in days, and I encounter Alistair on my way back to the Wardens' section of the camp, holding two wooden bowls and being tailed by an angry Absolon.

"This is your dog, right?" When I nod, he scowls. "Well, then tell him to stop growling at me! All I said was 'hi, doggy, I've got some food for your lady, do you think that she's awake yet', and all of the sudden he's snapping at my legs!"

I laugh and whistle Absolon over. "He is hungry, and he can count. Where is the bowl for him?"

"Your mabari wants noodles in broth?"

I sigh and drop to my knees, taking my hound's ears in my hands. "You hear that? Perhaps you should go hunt for breakfast. You may have the entire hare today, as long as you promise to be back before dusk."

Absolon barks happily before tearing toward the abandoned section of the ruin. Alistair and I sit on a log in front of the campfire, and he passes my food over.

He's right; it's just noodles in a weak broth, but my body tells me that I've never eaten anything so delicious. He laughs as I devour the noodles, barely taking the time to chew before giving myself another mouthful.

"Duncan warned me that he hadn't been feeding you enough."

I tip the bowl and drain the broth, as well. "Correct. Where is he?"

"Seeing to the rest of the Wardens. I'm with you for the day, since apparently the king wants me to keep you company while you're guarding their little signal fire. Duncan also told me I'm supposed to make sure you don't threaten anyone else."

I groan. "I apologized for that last night!"

Alistair shrugs. "Recruits have done stranger things after a Joining."

"What did you do?"

"Me? Nothing special. I hated being a Templar, so risking death seemed like a fair price to pay for becoming a Grey Warden." He turns to face me, suddenly serious. "Look, I'm sorry about your family."

"What? How did you—"

"I asked Duncan about it this morning. I heard a lot of your argument. Well, I mean, so did most of the camp, but I wanted to know why he'd dragged the daughter of a teyrn unconscious out of her own castle."

I flush. "Most of the camp...?"

"Yeah, some of the Ash Warriors were reenacting it this morning. They don't have half your skill with a knife, though." When I don't smile, he coughs and moves on. "Anyway, I was thinking that we should find your brother this morning, since we have time before the battle. Thought it might help."

Unfortunately, the day seems to have other ideas. Questioning several officers reveals that my brother's forces are stationed outside the main camp, not far into the Wilds, where they're busy setting traps and reinforcing our defenses. But the man guarding the gate refuses to allow us out without written permission from Duncan or the king. The senior Warden, naturally, is nowhere to be found, and Cailan forbids my leaving the encampment.

"Evelyn, think about it," he pleads. "You and your brother are likely still in danger. Both of you in the same area may prove too tempting a target. Wait until after the battle, and I can reunite you with my guard along."

When I frown, he laughs at me. "You've gotten better at sulking over the years."

"And yet not good enough." I leave his tent before he can grace me with more of his condescension, and Alistair follows after awkwardly.

"I should probably tell you that my ideas are usually bad," he says once we reach our section of camp.

"Spar with me."

"What?" He raises an eyebrow.

"I am angry, and the person I used to take it out on died a week ago. Spar with me."

"I don't know... you wouldn't happen to be the _reason_ why this person died, would you?"

Something burns in my chest. I must have let it show in my expression, because he apologizes instantly. "So, uh. Blades, or no?"

I draw my knives. "Let's see how well you can parry."

Rather well, which I'm unprepared for. Scant seconds into our warm-up he counters a thrust with a shield swing, and I take several pounds of steel to the stomach and land on my back in the dirt. Right, then; Ser Gilmore had used a broadsword, but now I know to be wary of his blade and shield both.

Alistair laughs sheepishly and helps me to my feet, and we face off once more. This time, I focus more on dodging his swings than offensive strikes, and am pleased to find that this allows us to work well together. Twenty minutes later, we've collected a small crowd of bored soldiers, and both of us are panting, which is uncomfortable for me in my new leathers; they don't move with me as easily as they should quite yet. Much more of this, and I'll bruise.

I sheath my knives and smile. "If we continue, we will be napping at our post tonight."

He sighs. "I'm as happy about it as you are, but there's nothing that we can do once the king has spoken."

"I am well aware." I point at Alistair's blade and frown. "Your sword is too heavy, you know. That is much of why you had trouble defending. And if your shield had been less cumbersome, I would not have been able to dodge it."

He nods. "Senior Wardens get nice stuff, usually. Gifts, and they have money to buy better equipment. But I'm only slightly less new than you are, so I've got the hand-me-downs, if you will."

I think about the blade and shield in Duncan's tent. I wanted my brother to wear them into battle, but that clearly won't be possible. I can't use them myself, as my fighting skills don't allow for either a blade that size or for a shield. But my mother and father were both too practical to wish them go to waste when they could serve someone well in a battle.

"Wait here."

"Where else would I go?" He sinks onto a log and drops his shield into the dust at his feet.

It doesn't seem quite right to simply rifle through Duncan's gear, but my items prove easy to find, so at least I'm not at it for long. When I retrieve them and leave the tent, Alistair gives me a suspicious stare. "What, should I go in now and steal two knives? Are we switching?"

"Do you always resort to glibness when you are not sure what is going on?"

"Well, I'm _usually_ gl—oh, I walked right into that." He shakes his head, and I offer my family's sword for his inspection.

"I suggest you stop talking and try the blade."

Alistair takes it by the hilt, and after stepping away gives it a few test swings. The blade's weight and balance make him smile. "This is nice! Where'd you get it?"

"The sword and shield belonged to my father. I would like you to use them tonight." He shakes his head and turns the sword back to me hilt-first.

"No, I—"

"Do not fight me on this," I say. "I have no desire to go into battle alongside a poorly equipped soldier. You need to be able to carry your own weight."

"Right, because we'll be seeing a lot of action on the watch tower," he grins, flourishing my family's blade. "Do you mind if I use this to whittle? Maybe we'll find an exceptionally rude branch in the signal fire."

He's threatening to use the Cousland's sword, for which I fought through countless soldiers to save, for woodcarving. I should _not_ giggle, so of course I do; my sense of humor has never agreed with my sense of propriety, much to my mother's near-constant dismay. I can almost feel her disapproving of our conversation, but the effect is oddly soothing. When Alistair notes my mirth, his smile grows sheepishly wide.

"You know, when people laugh after I make a joke, they're usually laughing _at_ me."

"I can, if you would prefer."

He shakes his head. "No. I'd like a chance to get used to feeling interesting, if it's all the same to you."

Dusk is approaching; as soon as I notice, my smile fades, and I sink to the log in front of our fire with a sigh. "Well, think of some particularly amusing stories between now and when we reach our post, otherwise I might die of boredom tonight."

A low voice sounds from behind me, and I make a most undignified noise out of surprise. "I take it you are still displeased with the king's decision." Duncan's armor clinks into view behind me, and I lean back on my arms to gain a better view of his face.

"Of course I am! I would much rather be fighting with the rest of the Wardens! With you! And it seems unfair to Alistair to be asked to babysit me."

Duncan is unamused by my choice of words. "Cailan trusts Alistair. It has little to do with you."

Alistair interrupts our glowering at one another to voice a complaint of his own. "And the Grey Wardens are suddenly an extension of his army, to put wherever he pleases?"

I hear the frown in Duncan's voice as I turn my head to watch the Templar grit his teeth in annoyance. "We owe a great debt to the king, and cannot afford to offend the nobility."

"Well, just so you know, if he asks me to put on a dress and dance for his amusement, I'm refusing. A line must be drawn somewhere."

I shouldn't giggle, so of course I do. Mother would insist that Alistair is a bad influence. "That would certainly be a sight."

Alistair's smile resurfaces as quickly as it had faded. "Yeah, can you imagine me shimmying down the front lines? The darkspawn would fall over laughing, and the battle would be over instantly."

"If any of the soldiers could contain themselves long enough to stab them where they lay," I add, and it is Alistair's turn to laugh.

Duncan shakes his head and sighs at us both, so I swallow my smile and stand to face him. "Forgive us, but you know that we would rather be fighting with you."

His fingers find their way into my hair, and I see Alistair become suddenly busy with his new shield from the corner of my eye. "You will not like to hear this, but I will be able to focus better on the battle without you near."

I want to hit him, because he is the bastard son of a whore, but I lean into his chest instead and close my eyes. "You sound like my father, and brother, and mother."

"Rather than resentment, you should be pleased that they cared for you as deeply as they did. Few of your fellow Wardens were ever granted such a luxury."

It occurs to me that he might be telling me that _he_ cares for me, too. No, of course he does. Alistair is already holding proof of that, and if he hadn't cared he wouldn't have kept me in his arms at night while worrying that he was taking me to my death. I remember the look in his eyes as my mother asked him to take me away, and when he was handing me the cup of blood. Soldiers _can't_ care. It makes us less likely to perform well, or properly. My father and brother weren't making light of my abilities, as I had assumed, or punishing me for years of inappropriate remarks at formal dinners; they were worried that my being there would encourage irrationality. Duncan is a senior Warden, and can't afford to place my well-being over the outcome of a battle.

"How shall we ever fight together?" I tilt my head to face his and give him a weak smile.

Duncan frowns. "Soon, it will not matter. But not this battle, Evie. I am sorry."

I want to ask him what he means, and so of course he kisses me, out in the middle of the camp, as he had essentially ordered me never to do, the bastard. When his tongue finds mine, I muffle my sigh for Alistair's sake. But I also throw my arms around him as best I can with our breastplates interfering and attempt to convince him to ignore the battle entirely and drag me back into his tent.

It doesn't work. I tell myself that if it _had_ , I would have reminded him of the darkspawn that need killing. He pulls away from me, shaking his head, and orders me and Alistair to get to our post and be ready to light the signal before walking away and leaving us alone again.

"He told me to be _subtle_ ," I grumble, and begin checking the fastenings on my gauntlets.

Alistair must know that I didn't mean for him to respond, but to my chagrin he chooses to. "Well, he's been getting congratulations all morning, so I think he decided that it doesn't matter anymore."

"C-congratulations?" I sputter.

"Evelyn, you're the first female Grey Warden that's survived a Joining in years. Even if soldiers don't know that you're a Cousland, they know you by sight, and everyone knows whose tent you were in last night."

"So? I could have been there for _you_ , for all they know!"

Alistair turns scarlet. "No, I think not."

"Sorry," I sigh. "I did not mean to make this awkward for you."

He laughs. "If you think that this is awkward, you're going to _love_ being the only female Warden, you know."

"I can only imagine." For now. By tomorrow evening, I'll likely be painfully aware.

"Well!" he says, slinging my shield over his back and sheathing my sword. "It's about time to get to our post!"

"One moment, I need Absolon." Bloody dog has no sense of time. I put two fingers in my mouth and whistle loudly enough to make Alistair jump. Within seconds my hound is barreling down the path toward me, muzzle covered in blood. "Well, someone ate well," I smile, leaning over to give him a quick hug.

"I hate to ask, but is _everything_ you do loud? You also talk in your sleep, you know."

I ignore the question and ask one of my own. "Where are we heading?"

"Back across the bridge, which we should do before they start lobbing—wait, do you hear that?"

 _That_ is the sound of our enemy lobbing boulders at the front lines. Ferelden's archers are lined across the bridge, and most of the projectiles are being aimed at them. This makes reaching the tower a bit of an adventure, though once we arrive it's clear that the fun is only starting: darkspawn are everywhere, and the bodies of the men tasked to guard the tower are strewn about, often in pieces. Absolon gives a mighty howl and charges into the thick of it, and I follow, knives drawn. Alistair's senses prevent a second group from ambushing us, and soon enough we have slaughtered all of the darkspawn outside the tower.

We manage to save a mage who was fleeing the tower, and he agrees to help us fight our way back to the fourth floor, where the beacon is located. I've never worked closely with a mage, as my mother had some very strong opinions of them, so during our first battle together am nearly both burnt and electrocuted. He spends the next several skirmishes eying me warily and doing little more than shooting darkspawn with his staff, but once as he realizes that I'm a fast learner he returns to gleefully decimating our enemies. Once the floor is cleared, I take the time to rifle through their belongings, which garners an annoyed sigh from Alistair.

"Look, we need to _hurry_ , not shop in their pockets."

I toss a health poultice at him and pocket an acid flask. "We have three more floors to cover, and our mage is not a healer. Start searching."

The health poultices come in handy when Alistair accidentally triggers a fire trap on the second floor and nearly roasts us all. Thus learning that I'm the only one of my comrades who has an eye for such details, I insist on taking the lead. We've just cleared the second floor when Alistair turns to me again.

"There weren't supposed to _be_ any darkspawn here. I don't understand!"

An hour ago he was lamenting that we'd be missing all the fun, and now that there’s fun to be _had_ , he is slowing us down by worrying? Between his whining and our twitchy mage, my patience is wearing thin. "Perhaps you would like to explain that to them?"

"Oh, sure, and we'll all realize that this was a big mistake and laugh about it later." His eyes narrow. "We need to hurry."

"If you promise to stop talking, I shall pick up the pace."

He sighs and points toward the door to the third floor. "After you, then."

When we reach the next group of darkspawn, I take a flying leap at their leader, and have him and two others downed by the time Alistair has stepped into sword range. I backstab the archer menacing my mage and send Absolon to tear the throat out of the one the Templar is distracting.

He stares at me in shock as I run for the hall, but once we reach the next cluster holds to my new pace with ease. Our enemies come in waves, but I shriek and dodge, stabbing with my blades together and gutting everything that Alistair knocks to the floor with his shield. By the time we reach the end, the poor mage is panting, I'm covered in viscous darkspawn blood, and Alistair is laughing.

"So last night, I told Duncan never to recruit from Highever."

"I do remember that," I mutter, wiping my blades on a fallen archer.

"I've changed my mind. If the rest of them fight like you, I think we should conscript your entire town. This Blight would be over in a week." He grins at me, and I giggle despite myself.

"We're almost to the beacon," the mage gasps, resting gracelessly against a wall.

"We've likely missed the signal. Once we clear the room, I say we just light the fire."

I nod at Alistair and collect useful odds and ends from the darkspawn while the mage catches his breath. Once we're prepared and I've wiped the worst of the blood from Absolon's face, we take the stairs to the fourth floor.

My brother broke his arm once when we were little, falling off a horse we were riding together, and because of that I've never forgotten the sound of cracking bone. That's why I realize that we are in trouble before I set eyes on our newest foe. I feel Absolon back against my legs, growling, and look up. And up.

Standing in the center of the room, directly next to the signal fire that we were meant to guard, is the most enormous creature I've ever seen. It turns, partially-eaten soldier in hand, and snarls at us as we come into view.

"That's...bad," Alistair comments, gripping his sword more tightly. "I've never seen an actual ogre before."

"Stay still," I hiss, and reach for the flask of acid I'd filched from the darkspawn earlier. One strong toss and it shatters at the feet of the beast, covering him in noxious gas.

"Torch him!" I shriek, and our panicked mage swaths half the room in fire.

Oh, this is excellent: we appear to have made the ogre _angry_. It bellows and surges toward me, and Abosolon snarls and runs in to nip at his ankles. I yell at him to keep back, but Alistair is already moving to join him, hacking and slashing at the creature's knees. I curse and dash over as well, hoping to hamstring it, and am rewarded by a solid kick to the gut. I hit the stone floor with a grunt and almost lose my knives and my breakfast as my body attempts to understand what just happened.

The ogre is about to crush me beneath a piece of rubble, but the mage manages to distract it from me with a bolt of lightning, and Alistair distracts it from the mage with a great deal of shouting. I pull myself to my feet and dart in to its side, burying my daggers in the soft flesh of its outer thigh. The angry bellow this elicits makes our mage shout in glee and send another barrage of lightning down upon the ogre.

If our foe wasn't angry before, it is now. Absolon can dodge its swipes easily, as can I, and the mage is too far away to be in much danger. But Alistair is in plate, and this encumbrance proves a problem: I watch in horror as one enormous hand snatches him from the floor and hauls him to face-level. The mage halts the spell he was casting out of fear of damaging him, and I freeze; if Alistair is about to be thrown, I'll need to distract the ogre so that he may right himself.

But no. Its other hand swings out, then hits him square in the chest, filling the air with the sound of weakening metal. A second swing, and my family's sword falls from his hands, and a dent appears in his armor. One more will surely kill him.

"No!" I shriek, and leap at the ogre. My shout distracts him from Alistair, and gives me a chance to stun the beast. I was worried that the move wouldn't work, but it seems that even ogres become incapacitated when boxed hard enough in the kidneys. It staggers, stunned, and Alistair and I fall to the floor.

"Get up!" I order, sliding the sword his way. He staggers to his feet, shakes his head, and then charges the ogre. I lunge with him, and bury my daggers to the hilt in the creature's belly at the same time as his sword. It falls backward with a roar, and I dive onto its chest, bracing myself with my knees as I use my body weight to send my daggers into its throat, severing its spine and jugular at the same time. My father taught me this technique for use on wolves, and it proves just as effective against the ogre. It twitches one final time, sending me backward onto the stone beside Alistair, before expiring in a fountain of its own blood.

"What...what was that?" he gasps, rising to his feet and offering me a hand.

"Family trick."

The mage gives a hysterical sort of giggle and runs over to stand beside us. "I thought you two were dead!"

Alistair shakes his head at me; there must be few Wardens with my style of training. "Let's get the fire going." He strides over, limping slightly, and tosses the torch onto the tinder.

I want to go to the window, to check the battle's progression, but a searing pain in my back warns me that we've just been ambushed. Alistair shouts and fumbles for his sword as I whirl, daggers still in hand. The mage crumples, an arrow to his throat, as I take two more to the chest. The pain is so great that my nerves shut down completely, and I'm able to take another step forward before one pierces my stomach and sends me to the floor. Alistair is already down, eyes glazed, blood flowing freely from several arrow wounds.

No _. No._ I refuse to die. Why won't my body obey? My fingers release my blades, and as the pain returns in a sudden wave, my vision fails.

 _No_. The shrieks of the darkspawn around me fill me with rage. Why can't I stab them? Why can't I just  _get up_?

 

~*-*~

 

I've nearly forgotten what it's like to wake in a bed. This one isn't as fine as I'm used to, but it's better than coming to on the ground. I open my eyes, expecting to see a worried Duncan and Alistair, and perhaps the dome of a hospital tent, but instead I meet the eyes of a woman in ridiculous robes.

Everything hurts. I try to sit up, and reconsider half-way. My clothes are off, and it's cold, wherever I am.

"Your eyes are open! Your friend shall be pleased. He has been lamenting your impending death since he awoke."

Her voice is familiar, as is the smell in the air. "You are the woman from the Wilds."

"My name is Morrigan, lest you have forgotten."

Yes, Morrigan, whom Daveth and Jory had so feared. And Alistair.

"Is...is Alistair...?"

"Outside with my mother, waiting for you."

"But how did I get here?" I force myself to sit up fully, remembering Duncan's insistence that it's best to fight through the confusion and haze.

"Mother saved you. The man who was meant to support the king and the Wardens quit the field and let his comrades be overrun. You and your friend were at the tower, but she barely got to you in time."

"What...happened?"

"Your forces were slaughtered," the witch replies with an odd sort of cheer.

No, surely not. My family had tolerated Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir since his ascension because although he was a pompous bastard, he genuinely cared about the people, and about the safety of our lands.

What would drive him to betray his own country in such a fashion, the country for which his fight for independence had won him his lands and title? My brother, and my soldiers...King Cailan...and Duncan, all dead? I shake my head and force the panic welling in my chest beneath the surface. Who now would punish Arl Howe? Where are Alistair and I meant to go if the rest of the Wardens have fallen? Why did he allow the king to die? If I'd been there, and not at the bloody tower, could I have....

No. It's done. _Never look back, pup. Hindsight fixes no mistakes; only action can._

Morrigan watches me with interest, perhaps wondering how I'll respond to such news. I do what any Cousland would do and rely on diplomacy while my thoughts continue to scream unheeded in the back of my mind: "Thank you for your help, Morrigan."

She blinks in surprise, and stammers that her mother did all of the work. I inspect my stomach and chest, where I remember the arrows striking, and find not so much as a scar. I was right the first time to respond to these two with tact; I've never met a mage with such power.

I manage to get dressed with a minimal amount of fumbling and step outside of their home to seek Alistair. I expect that he'll have a plan, an idea of where we should join with other Wardens, but realize the instant he meets my eyes that this has nearly broken him. His voice is thick with grief, and his eyes are red from crying, or lack of sleep, or both. I force myself to smile when I approach, and his voice cracks. "I thought you were going to die."

"No, I am fine, though I appreciate your concern."

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "You said that after the Joining, too. I don't believe you." Then he turns back to the pond he has been watching, and leaves me to my thoughts.

I'm angry, I realize. So angry that it hurts. Angry at Arl Howe, and my family, and at Teyrn Loghain and the darkspawn that I've been told just took away my brother and the one man left in the region that I've known for more than two days. I'm one of two members of a decimated order, my brother-in-arms appears to be useless with shock, and I'm angry about that, as well, because he's my superior and as such should be doing more than staring forlornly out over the water of a swamp.

It's all up to me, then. The set of his shoulders makes it clear that he'll be unreliable until he remembers that he's a soldier. I'm no soldier, but I _am_ the daughter of two great leaders, and so I shall do what I never felt like doing while my family was alive and I was still in possession of my own home: I shall take control. I shall lead.

I must find a way to take vengeance upon Arl Howe, prevent Alistair from falling into despondency, and keep the darkspawn from overrunning the country and reaching Highever now that my people have been left utterly defenseless. This _should_ have been the teyrn's goal, but his idiocy on the battlefield has left me with no other option than to ignore my grief and do what must be done until I've solved the problem myself. My mother used to warn me that this is how it always is with politics, but I hadn't believed her.

I'm beginning to worry that I never gave her words enough credence.

I pick up a rock at my feet and hurl it into the pond before me with a shriek that makes my throat ache. Alistair jumps and turns to stare with wide eyes, and Morrigan's crazy mother cackles happily.

She saved us, her daughter had said. Very well, then. I face her, and give her my best Cousland smile. "Tell me how this happened."


	5. What Should Have Been

When we left the Wilds, we numbered four. Morrigan's mother requested that we take her daughter with us as payment for treating our wounds, and I didn't wish to learn the consequences of declining her offer. Morrigan and Alistair both were less than pleased with this arrangement, and spent the entire trip from the Wilds to the town of Lothering bickering with one another. I allowed them to do so without pause; her cutting remarks brought the fire back out of the Templar for sometimes minutes at a time. But when there was silence, or we were speaking to other Templars and the revered mother in an attempt to learn what had happened during our recovery in the Wilds, he retreated back into himself.

My brother went through a similar phase when he was first a teenager, and so I was torn between sympathy and frustrated bemusement. Father would have taken Alistair into our courtyard and sparred with him until he was bruised and angry, and so I decided to do something similar: I sent us bandit hunting.

Alistair was a good person to his core; Morrigan was not, perhaps, or had at the very least been raised with a different set of morals than the rest of us. This was the source of their disagreements, more so than her cutting remarks on his intelligence, but for my part I recognized instantly the usefulness of her self-centered pragmatism. I told her to see to supplying us in whatever manner she saw fit, so long as it involved no deaths and we ended with slightly _less_ money than we began, and watched her stride off happily to harass the vendors of Lothering. Thus freed, we were able to make short work of the vermin preying upon refugees on the roads, and once evening fell Alistair appeared to be in higher spirits. We walked toward the tavern, where we had agreed to meet Morrigan, still debating what to do with the money I'd encouraged the bandits to relinquish before ordering them to flee for their lives.

"I still think that we should give it to the Chantry," he sighed, and I shook my head.

"The revered mother already extorted a tithe of thirty silver, if you will recall."

"Yes, but this is money that bandits _stole_ from the refugees. If we keep the money they took, are we any better than they were?" His eyebrows lowered as his frown deepened, and I was left contemplating the significance of finding a man who was more adept at pouting than I.

"If you prefer, we could refuse the reward they were offering, so that their chantry may put those funds to better use for the refugees. But we need to resupply if we are to be of any use to Ferelden, Alistair. "

" _Use_ , sure. Because two of us are going to save the kingdom."

Absolon growled at those words, and I wanted to hit him; if he hadn't been in such low spirits, I might have. Instead, I brushed past him, intending to enter the tavern and present the problem to Morrigan. Perhaps if he were outvoted on the matter, which he _would_ be the instant she learned where he intended the money to be delivered, he would cease harping. We'd given that lost boy coin for a meal, after all, and health poultices to the village elder; it wasn't as though we were unwilling to aid others with the wealth that the bandits had skimmed. If Alistair weren't in poor spirits already, he'd understand that.

Entering the tavern proved to be a terrible decision: it was full to the brim with soldiers, and worse, those soldiers appeared to be searching for me and Alistair. Morrigan was garnering strange looks, though she'd gone unrecognized, but Alistair's armor and my appearance gave us away at once. That was how we discovered that Grey Wardens had not only been named criminals by the teyrn, but that he had even gone so far as to blame the massacre at Ostagar and the death of King Cailan on our order.

My rage would have been enough to ensure the quickness of the ensuing battle, but it was curtailed even further by the aid of a chantry sister who had overheard the conversation and come to our aid. After our enemies had fallen or fled, Leliana offered her skills with a bow, and out of gratitude I reserved judgment of her assertion that a vision from the Maker had sent her to us. Thus, when we left the tavern, we numbered five.

Morrigan had done well gathering provisions, and I was pleased by Alistair's lack of suspicious commentary concerning her methodology. Lothering had proven too overrun, and so we decided to leave for the north and make camp outside of the city, rather than attempting to find room in one of the town's buildings. Morrigan appeared even less desirous than I to be mingling with terrified refugees.

Considering the relative solitude of the Wilds, I could understand. My own reluctance was far shallower: simply put, I was having difficulty tolerating the way that they _smelled_.

As eager as she was to be outside of town, Morrigan was who delayed us at its outskirts and pointed out a man in a cage. Though he was a prisoner, rumored to have murdered an entire family, he was also a qunari warrior, which was enough to cause Alistair to suggest that we conscript him. Our new sister, however, made such a move unnecessary, and was able to convince the revered mother to give him to us rather than letting him die of exposure. The Templars and chantry-folk alike seemed to trust her a great deal, and I concluded that no matter how strange her assertion that the Maker had sent her to us might be, she must be both reliable and sane enough to win the trust of her fellows. We were given the key to the qunari's cage, and as soon as I let the massive man out, we put the town of Lothering behind us.

Now we number six, and the one I've known the longest can't speak and loves me because I feed him. As we set up our campsite in silence, I resign myself to a few awkward days on the road, at the very least. Morrigan makes an excellent impression by keeping herself as far from the campfire as she possibly can, and the qunari, though he remains near the rest of us, speaks not a word. I sort through our provisions and realize with a sigh that we will be eating cured meat for dinner for the foreseeable future.

"That's just as well," Alistair laughs, tearing into his portion. "I can't cook to save my life."

I glance sideways at Leliana, the only other of us currently within earshot. Of all of us, Alistair is the only one who knows that I'm a Cousland. "I never had the need to learn," I admit.

"I thought that you might be a noblewoman," she smiles, sitting down beside me. "I recognize the way you set your shoulders."

Absolon wanders over to inspect Sten, who patiently presents a hand to be sniffed. So he's good with dogs, at least. I make a mental note to get him some armor while I pass Leliana her share of dinner. "That makes me even more curious as to what you did before entering the Chantry."

"What makes you think that I haven't been a sister all of my life?"

Alistair shakes his head. "I'm not buying it. You _destroyed_ those guards in the tavern."

While he and I eat, Leliana tells a bit more about herself. I'm not surprised to learn that she was born in Orlais, as she has the same accent as the Arl of Redcliffe's wife, though her voice is far less grating to the ears than Isolde's. Once she informs us that she spent much of her time in that country as a bard for a noblewoman, we manage to convince her to play us a few songs.

As soon as the music begins, Absolon leaves Sten and lies down beside me, resting his head in my lap and politely ignoring my dinner. The second song manages to lure Morrigan toward us, as well, and I laugh to myself, and feel rather awful about it at the same time, over how skillfully Leliana has managed to soothe our wild creatures. After the third piece, our bard begs to be allowed to sleep, and I thank her for the entertainment. She's a skilled player; no wonder that she had a noble patroness in Orlais. I'm left wondering why she left at all, but know that it would be imprudent to ask.

"Absolon, go play with Alistair," I murmur, and make a point of ignoring the startled sound that the man makes when tens of pounds of warhound deposits itself into his lap. The Templar's angry cries drive Morrigan back to her solitude, shaking her head in annoyance, and as Leliana sets up her bedroll, I approach the qunari. He frowns as soon as he sees me, and I make a point of not smiling. Father's prize hound had been sullen, like Sten, but was a wonderful companion if treated seriously. I suspect that he will prove to possess much the same temperament.

"Why have we stopped so soon?" His voice seems to be perpetually hoarse; years of shouting in battle, perhaps.

"You just spent weeks locked standing in a cage with no food or water." I offer a portion of our rations, and he takes them without thanking me. "Are you sure that you are in any condition for fighting?"

"I will be fine," he grumbles. "...Though your concern is appreciated."

"We shall outfit you with armor and the like tomorrow, and then make our way to our destination after."

His eyes meet mine for the first time since I freed him, and I'm struck by their oddity: violet, with red rims about the irises. Our new companion appears built for both looming _and_ glowering, which more likely than not will prove useful. "Where are we going?"

I don't know, but a leader should never admit such a fact to a newcomer, and so I give him an appropriately vague answer. "To see about a treaty or three that needs honoring."

This seems to satisfy him, and so I return to my spot beside the fire. Alistair, having extricated himself from the maw of my mabari, collapses beside me moments later smelling vaguely of dog. "What was that for?" he frowns.

I keep my voice level. "What?"

"You set your dog on me. He told me, didn't you boy?" Absolon gives a happy bark, and it's my turn to frown.

"Traitorous beast." He snorts at me and circles thrice before lying down under a nearby tree. "Seriously, what did I do?"

"You've been brooding. I wanted to keep you distracted."

This admission is a mistake; instead of laughing, he nearly snarls. "What, am I not justified in being upset that all of my friends were just murdered?"

"No, you are." I consider reminding him that I have lost my entire family, but conclude that it would be counterproductive to begin a competition to determine which of us was more emotionally damaged. "I am worried about you, actually."

"Do you make it a habit of sending your warhound to attack people you're worried about?" When I sigh, he apologizes. "Look, it's been a long day. How about you sleep, and I'll take first watch?"

"Morrigan is still awake," I observe, and he scowls.

"Yeah, sure. She'd let us all be eaten by darkspawn and then rob our corpses if we let _her_ stand watch."

I'm not entirely convinced that I agree, but I am tired, and so I allow him the chance to be vigilant _and_ brooding. We had bought tents, but as the weather was clear and we would be moving on at dawn, had decided not to pitch them. This is likely for the best, as I'm still unsure how the process works, and do not believe that Morrigan or Sten's opinions of me would be greatly improved by the spectacle I'd make while learning. I lay my bedding with my feet toward the fire so that they will be warm, curl in upon myself, and close my eyes.

 

~*-*~

 

When I come to, covered in cold sweat, and splayed upon my back with blankets kicked off, Alistair is sitting beside me. "Let me guess. Huge dragon thing, masses of darkspawn, and fiery roaring so loud that it made your ears ring."

I sit up and brush my fingers over my face, taking a deep breath to steady myself. "It felt so real."

"That's because it is. That was the archdemon talking to the darkspawn. Thanks to the Joining, we hear it when it happens." Alistair throws a stray leaf into the fire.

I think back to Duncan's restless sleeping and feel a sudden chill. "This is a common problem, then?"

"Sure. You'll get better at blocking them out, but as you get older—some of the other Wardens say they start understanding what the dragon is saying. But we can sense the darkspawn and are immune to their blood, so. It evens out, right?"

I shake my head and draw my knees toward my chest. "I do not wish to have dreams like that often."

"They'll get less... intense. Either that, or you just get used to them. Anyway, I thought you might want to know. Get back to sleep."

"No. I am very awake now."

He settles further onto the ground beside me. "Suit yourself, but you'll be exhausted tomorrow."

"It really is a shame that I grew so tall," I say, glancing at my mabari. "When I was younger, I used to ride Absolon when I was tired. He would carry me around the castle. It absolutely horrified my mother."

Alistair laughs and looks to my dozing hound. "How long have you been together, then? I thought they only imprinted on adults."

"Yes, well, I proved an exception to that rule. He chose me when I was ten. Father took me to visit our kennels because I wanted to see the hound that had birthed a litter a few weeks before. I left with a very determined young Absolon on my heels. Mother was livid, but my father took to referring to us as 'his pups,' and loved telling visiting noblemen that his daughter had already impressed a mabari."

Alistair studies my face, perhaps wondering at my age. "He's not as young as I thought he was, then. I assumed you'd gotten him as a teenager, and that he was maybe four, at the oldest."

"He is eleven, but our family's line is known for its longevity." A flicker of pain begins in my chest, but I ignore it and focus on Absolon, not my father and his prize hounds. "He will have another ten years ahead of him, assuming nothing disastrous happens to us all."

For several minutes, the only sound is the wind and the crackling of the fire before us. "You know," Alistair says at last, "I've been trying to think of a way to apologize to you since you fell asleep. Nothing came to mind, so I'm just going to say it."

I raise an eyebrow. "For what?"

"How I've acted since you came to," he frowns. "It was unfair of me to make you take charge, and to sulk like this when you've lost just as much as I have in recent days. I mean, the Grey Wardens were like my family, but your family, uh. Well— they _were_ your actual family, and. " He trails off awkwardly. "My point is, I won't do it again. You and I are both Wardens, and we'll get through this together, somehow. Just tell me what you need."

"Well," I begin, stretching and turning to face him completely. "There _is_ the matter of where to go next. We should decide that before breaking camp at the very least, do you agree?"

"Redcliffe isn't far from here, but if the arl is as sick as everyone was saying in Lothering, perhaps we should wait." Worry lines appear beneath Alistair's eyes, and I want to ask how he knows the arl, but decide that now is not the time.

"The Circle Tower is only a few days away," I offer. "We do have a treaty stating that we can call upon them to provide support during a Blight, so we might do well to begin there." I think of the white- haired mage, and wonder if she survived. It's unlikely. However, I have hopes that the Tower which made her who she was will have other, equally helpful mages inside. Perhaps one of them might be convinced to come with us to the arl and attempt to heal him.

"Oh, excellent. Yes, Let's drag the former Templar off to beg help from the mages, because that worked so well back at camp." But he's smiling, and so we agree that will be our first course of action.

Afterward, however, his face grows pained again. I guess correctly that his mention of Ostagar is the cause, and ask him if he wishes to talk about what happened. Morrigan is asleep, as are Leliana and Sten; this is the first decent opportunity that has presented itself to discuss Duncan in peace.

"You don't have to do that," he sighs. "You didn't know the Wardens."

"I knew Duncan."

"Yeah, but—"

"Maker's breath, Alistair, I was not asking only for _your_ sake." I swallow to prevent myself from sounding pained.

He cocks his head and stares at me with interest. "So you and Duncan _were_ —"

"What did you think that we were doing in bed together? Strategizing?" My voice sounds sharper than I had intended, but honestly, who is _that_ naïve?

Alistair crosses his arms and frowns at me. "That doesn't mean the two of you were...what? An item? Madly in love? Help me out here, what were you, exactly?"

The last thing I expected I would do in response to such a question is burst into tears. It also appears to be the last response he was expecting, because his expression instantly turns horrified. "L-look, that came out wrong."

Now I'm embarrassed, which makes me cry harder, and leaves him completely at a loss.

"Evelyn... blast. I'm going to try to explain myself, and it's not going to make any sense."

"I am listening," I say, and angrily wipe at my eyes. It would be a disaster if any of the others were to wake up and see me sobbing like this.

"Duncan wasn't exactly known for being a ladies' man. The fact that he allowed himself to be interested in you is...earth-shattering. I didn't even realize it until you passed out at the Joining. The look on his face when you collapsed..." I swallow again and risk looking at Alistair. Our eyes meet, and he shakes his head. "You were important to him. And he was important to me, and you seem like a nice person. If he meant nothing to you, it would bother me. And so I brilliantly asked you to tell me what he meant to you in the worst way possible."

Thinking about Duncan makes me tired, and I'm unsure that there is a way to explain how I feel about him that doesn't make me look like a horrible person. "I seduced him the first day we met, if you must know. He learned my name once we were in bed. I was trying to get back at my parents for not letting me ride with the forces to Ostagar." At the mention of my mother and father, my tears return full-force, and my breathing becomes awkward and hitched.

"But by the time you got to camp, you cared, right? You must have. It looked like you did, anyway."

I think of our last kiss, before the battle, and nod. "I did not know him as long as you did, and doubt that I feel his loss as deeply, but I should have liked to have known him better. I am still angry at him for all sorts of things," I sniff, "but I cannot blame him for being a good soldier."

"Look, you need to stop crying, or I'll never forgive myself," he laughs awkwardly. "Come here."

"Why?"

"You need a hug."

A _hug_? My parents weren't known for giving hugs, and so I'm never sure quite how to feel about them when they're offered. I inspect his face carefully, but he appears to be completely sincere. "How would you know?"

"Okay, fine. _I_ need a hug." He holds out an arm half-heartedly. "Please? I can't stand that I made you cry."

I decide that he's not wrong: I _do_ need a hug, but it takes some doing to agree to accept one from a near-stranger. My brother had always been the one I went to when I needed comforting. But Alistair is well-meaning, and so I swallow my pride and lean in against his chest. His arms encircle me loosely, and the first thought that enters my mind is how warm he is. The second is how strongly we both smell of darkspawn blood. I have ceased crying within the minute, and am instead very tired.

"I think I'll ask Leliana to take the next watch," he murmurs, and I feel it in his chest. "You need better sleep than you've gotten."

"I will not argue with that," I sigh. I'm growing tired of crying at the slightest provocation. Andraste's ashes, my brother used to cry more often when we were growing up, and he was older than I!

I pull away from Alistair and shiver as the night air hits where his skin had been moments before. He spies the action and draws my bedding toward us, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders. "We'll just have to take care of each other, now that we're the only two Wardens, right? I'll stop making you cry, and you can protect me from Morrigan." He gives a little finger-wiggle in time with her name.

"You have a deal. Cross your legs."

"Why?" He raises an eyebrow at me.

"You made me hug you. Now I am going to use you as a pillow until I cheer up."

"What part of 'let's take care of each other' makes you think I enjoy moonlighting as spare bedding?" he grumbles, but crosses his legs all the same. I turn on my back and rest my head across his calves, then close my eyes with a heavy sigh. I used to do this with my brother as children when one of us was hiding from Mother, and even now it proves strangely calming.

"Comfortable?"

"You have perfectly adequate calves."

"I've been waiting my entire life to hear a woman say that to me." When I roll my eyes, he laughs. I glance up at his face, and he tilts his head to meet my eyes. "Where was Duncan from?"

"Highever," he replies. "I wish that I knew something about his family, but I don't really think he had any. I just...feel like someone should give him a proper burial."

"I assume you know that the Couslands are the lords of Highever."

"I might have picked that information up somewhere, sure."

"Once I get my lands back—" for I _will_ be getting my lands back, one way or another, darkspawn or no— "You should come with me to Highever and help me put up something to remember him by."

"What, a statue?" Alistair grins down at me. "Duncan would hate that. What is it with nobles and  _statues_?"

"Not just for him," I retort, making only a half-hearted attempt at keeping my voice from sounding defensive. "For everyone at Ostagar. I want to be certain that no Fereldan ever forgets how Loghain betrayed us."

His smile fades into a mock frown. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."

I laugh softly and close my eyes again. "I learned from the best. My father used to name runts after nobles we disliked, but it was Mother whom you had to worry about."

"You take after your mother, don't you?" He's still smiling; I know by his voice.

"That is what I am told." And what Father had told Arl Howe just before he— well. One day he'll learn just how like my mother I truly am. Neither of us were woman for whom it was wise for someone to anger.

"I am utterly surprised to hear that." Alistair's weight shifts slightly. It sounds like he's leaning back on his arms. We're both relaxed, then.

"That much is clear," I murmur. Everything feels heavy. Perhaps I'll be able to sleep sooner than I had anticipated.

I drift for a while, and have almost succumbed to unconsciousness when Alistair speaks again. "So that's your type, then?"

I force my voice to work and my eyes to open. He's looking down at me with an expression of curiosity. "My...type?"

"Older, grumpy, bearded men with earrings?" His lopsided smile makes it clear that he's teasing me, and my skin betrays me by flushing.

"I do not have a type."

"Oh, come on," he scoffs.

My eyes narrow. "Nobles' daughters do not gain a _type_ without first losing their reputations. If you are under the impression that I seduced every visitor to my home, you are sorely mistaken."

I feel him tense for the briefest of moments before he gives me a rather forced smile and shakes his head. "Blast, I've offended you again."

"I shall retaliate, then," I laugh. "What is _your_ type, Chantry boy?"

"Us _Chantry boys_ don't gain a type," he grins, "without first being kicked out of the order."

"But you have been a Warden for six months!" I raise an eyebrow. "I suspect you have not tried."

It's his turn to flush in embarrassment. "You're done, Evelyn. This is torture."

"Very well." I close my eyes again and listen to the fire, wondering if Mother would be proud of my restraint. I want to ask him directly if he's a virgin; he must be, given these responses. And I'm sure he's curious as to whether or not Duncan was my only lover, but until he's comfortable enough with me to ask, I shall not press the issue for either of us. Soon I'm drifting again, and I have no idea how much later it is when the feel of fingers cradling the back of my neck rouses me enough to realize that he's sliding my pillow beneath my head.

 

~*-*~

 

A voice calls me back into consciousness: "It is time for us to leave."

My eyes open to find sunlight and the qunari kneeling beside me. When he sees that I'm awake, he rises. "Everyone wishes to travel, but no one wanted to wake you. They have been arguing about who would do it and wasting time."

"Thank you, Sten, for taking the initiative."

He grumbles indistinctly and walks away. I smile at his retreating back and kneel atop my bedroll to run through the stretches I'm in the habit of performing before training. They're meant to relax my back and legs, and I've sorely neglected them since leaving my home. My muscles are tight and protest being abused so soon after awakening, but I ignore them and keep at it until I'm able to stretch as far as I'm accustomed. When I rise and begin to awkwardly roll up my bedding, I catch Leliana watching me with interest.

"Those look lovely." She takes the other end of my bedroll and helps me tie everything back together properly. "I'd like to learn those stretches. Sleeping on the ground like this makes my back ache."

"I will teach them to you if you show me how to put my tent together once we reach the lake." I give her a tentative smile and hope that no one else has heard my request.

"Of course!" Her pleasant response reassures me that from Leliana, at least, I will see no condescension for what I'm becoming increasingly aware was a pampered upbringing. I can fight, and lead, but I don't have the skills that most of my companions assume are mundane. What use are my daggers if I have no idea how to cook or pitch a tent? Without the others, I would fare poorly out here. I'll have to learn quickly, and discreetly, and work to earn my companions' trust in the meantime so that when they realize exactly who I am, they'll still have faith me.

Alistair gives me his crooked smile when he sees me, and I wave. "Hand me your pack," I say by way of greeting, and then march over to Sten. "Here." I present it to him, and watch as he silently selects a suit of chainmail and a greatsword from our spare equipment. He is a much more imposing figure when covered in metal, which is saying a great deal.

"Will these suit you?"

Sten takes a long look at the sword before sheathing it against his back. "Yes, they will do. Shall we keep moving?"

I nod, and turn to find everyone ready, packs strapped to their backs, and eyes on me. "We are traveling to Lake Calenhad first," I tell them. "After we make camp there, we will visit the Circle of Magi." A series of nods, and no sign of doubt in their eyes. Father would be proud, I believe. And if this continues, the six of us might actually be able to impact the course of coming events.

I won't yet hope that we can stop the Blight. But it's a start. Alistair falls into step beside me as we walk north, and soon I'm laughing.


	6. The Ghost of You Lingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is AO.

My eyes insist that something is amiss. I run my hands across my face in irritation and fight a moment of queasiness. In front of me, a vast hall of stone stretches into the haze, much taller and grander than either my old home, or even the Royal Palace at Denerim. At its end stands a man with dark hair, who even in this gloom I would recognize in an instant.

 No. This is impossible.

 I break into a run and attempt to ignore how strangely my boots echo on the flooring. It's a simple matter to mount the steps and stand before him, and as he comes into clearer view I'm nearly overwhelmed by the severity of my relief.

 " _Duncan_!" I shriek, and throw my arms around him in a most un-ladylike fashion. The two other men in the hall stare at me disapprovingly, but he happily pulls me to him, and I'm inundated by the familiarity of his scent.

 "There you are," he smiles, and laughs when he sees tears in my eyes as I gaze at his face. "What is the matter with you?"

 "I... you are supposed to be dead," I murmur into his chest. We fall slowly to the floor together, and he encourages me to crawl into his lap. My eyes close, and I spend a few precious moments feeling safe and warm.

 "We may need to have the nurses look at your head again. I know the last battle was a close call for us, but you still see me here before you, do you not?" His fingers run through my hair.

"Where... where are we?" I glance at the great stone dome above us and feel queasy again.

"Weisshaupt," he chuckles, and tightens his arms about me fondly. "This is the main fortress for all Grey Wardens, remember? Is it not beautiful?"

If one ignores the crumbling pillars and the strange haze, I suppose it might be, so I nod. "But why are we not in Ferelden, fighting the darkspawn?"

Duncan takes my face in his hands and tilts my eyes to his. "Are you unwell, dearest? The darkspawn are defeated! We killed the archdemon and burned their nests underground, and now we are free to move on."

I frown and pull away from him slightly. "Move on? What does a Grey Warden do with no darkspawn to fight?"

"Other than reap the fruit of centuries of fighting to protect mankind, and tell tales of our successes? Relax, I suppose."

I shake my head and attempt to ignore the overwhelming sensation that I am trapped. "No. That is awful!" Sit in a grand hall and swap stories? That's what I spent my adolescence attempting to a _void_. "We are soldiers, not some clan of nobles, puffed up on our own pride."

"Have we not earned a rest?" Duncan's voice sounds weary.

"What you are describing to me is not rest, it is _boredom_."

His arms wrap around my waist, and I feel his voice in my ear, sending deep thrills to nestle between my hips. "I am rather enjoying it. Everyone I love is safe." A gentle kiss at my neck, meant to placate me.

Did he hit _his_ head in the battle, as well? Of course such tactics won't work on me; he should be well aware of this by now. "The Duncan I know would find this as boring as I do. What has happened to you?"

"The Duncan you knew did what he needed to in order to earn this reward. Now that we are at peace, what is wrong with me being more tranquil?"

"Tranquil?" I sulk into his chest. "I think you mean _sedated_."

His fingers tangle into my hair and pull, tilting my head back at a painful angle so that our eyes meet once more. "Do you believe the fire gone from me entirely, then? There are other sorts of fights to win, Evie."

Our mouths meet, and I find myself sighing loudly before I remember that we're not alone in the hall. But Duncan's lips are already on my neck, and his hands are roaming under my shirt, intent on—

"Nnh! N-not here. Not in front of the other Wardens... " But my eyes are drifting shut, and I can feel his weight pressing me against the stone.

"Were you not just complaining about boredom? Surely you are not changing your mind now," he growls, and sinks his teeth into my shoulder. As I groan loudly in response to this new pain, the closest Warden turns and gazes at us, splayed in the middle of the hall, with a look of hunger. I find his expression nearly more appealing than the feel of Duncan's tongue against my throat, and stop attempting to suppress my sounds of pleasure. As his large hands cover my breasts, cupping them and brushing at my nipples with his thumbs, I allow my back to arch and am rewarded by the feel of heated skin through cloth that I greatly wish was elsewhere.

It's as though Duncan's thoughts are my own: I'm soon free of my clothing, and pressed against the icy stone of the hall, wailing as my nerves attempt to reconcile the chill against my back with the heat radiating from his own partially-exposed skin. His muscles flex as he works to keep me pinned and spread, and I catch a gleam in his eyes that is at once terrifying and thrilling.

Duncan had never been like this when we were together previously. This is a Duncan who lived for battle, but found himself with no more war. And so he bites harder than he used to, and pins me roughly enough to bruise, and the more I struggle against him and cry out in pleasure, the harder I feel him becoming against my thigh. It's not long before he has me completely subjugated, collapsed on the floor and moaning at the ceiling while his mouth and hands roam and bite and claw and replace the chill of stone with rushing blood and a sound like war drums in my ears.

Bootsteps sound in time with my pulse; I open my eyes and remember that we're not alone. The other Warden is walking closer, arms crossed, and smiling in tandem with his comrade. Duncan grins at them, and before I can find the coherency to once again protest their presence, takes a nipple into his mouth. I arch into his face and struggle to free my arms from his grasp; I want to claw at his back, hold him close, something, _anything_ but lie here and be forced to endure such delicious torture. He snarls as I struggle against him, and bites at the breast he has been teasing. In the back of my mind, I'm dimly aware that this should have hurt, and likely will later, but my nerves insist that all they feel is the thrill of heat and teeth.

Duncan begins working his way down my body, licking and biting, drawing sounds from between my clenched teeth with a determination that's erotic in its own right. As he reaches my hips, he's forced to release my arms at last, and I grab at his ponytail and tug fiercely, hoping to draw him into another kiss.

"Hold her arms," he snarls, and I shriek as one of the Wardens steps forward, kneels down, and takes me by the wrists. Duncan's head falls between my legs, and any protests I might be able to muster at this sudden change are drowned in a groan. My captor leans close over me to better study my face as I succumb to the talents of my lover's tongue. I'm granted a brief glimpse of a somewhat feral smile from the short-haired Warden before my eyes slide shut and I slump weakly back against the floor.

Duncan's teeth nip at my inner thighs, biting progressively harder as two of his fingers work their way within me. I nearly knock myself silly on the stone as I writhe beneath him, and the Warden holding my arms laughs as I pause and take a few breaths to steady myself.

But I'm not given the chance. His fingers and teeth and tongue cause me to jerk uncontrollably against my captor, trying to get away, or retaliate, or both. My arms are fixed above my head, but as Duncan nips at my thigh strongly enough to awaken pain through the pleasure, my leg spasms and sends my knee on a collision course with his face.

He growls, and rises to his knees to glare. His eyes meet mine, and I feel a small chill as they narrow as they had before Ser Jory's death. A hand rises to his mouth, and he wipes a thin line of blood from his lip. I lie panting on the cold stone, waiting for him to speak.

He does not; instead, he beckons the other Warden over, who removes his shirt, wraps it around my left knee, and passes it to the man holding my hands. My leg is bent and pulled up against my side as he draws the shirt taut, and soon I can't move it. The now-shirtless man takes my other knee and pulls my leg perpendicular to my body, holding it at an almost-uncomfortable angle and pressing it hard against the stone. It's only when I am completely at Duncan's mercy that his eyes soften and his smile returns. The Warden pinning my hands leans away as my lover shifts upward for a moment, granting me the kiss I so desperately crave and ensuring, yet again, that I don't protest. The feel of his lips against mine, and his tongue within my mouth, is too consuming for me to wish to provoke him to stop. And so I remain pinned, and he returns his attentions between my legs for an excruciatingly long time.

I need more. I hear myself begging for him before I can prevent the words from escaping, and my cheeks flush with shame as he both ignores me and withdraws his fingers, sliding them instead with teasing lightness along my inner thighs. I groan and attempt to free my hands, but all I can do is curve my hips toward him, silently asking for what words did not win me. When Duncan begins unfastening his trousers, I nearly sob in relief.

The other Wardens do not release me as he positions himself between my legs, but my frustration at my inability to curl around him is dwarfed by the relief brought by his first thrust. His face is locked on mine, as are the faces of my captors, and I know that I'm supposed to be ashamed, but the way that they smile when I groan nearly leaves me senseless. The man at my arms shifts on the floor and brings one of my hands toward his mouth, where he begins biting and licking at the inside of my wrist. I had no idea that so small an action could feel so wonderful, and my eyes shut until the Warden at my legs begins caressing my calf and inner thigh with his free hand. My groans become a desperate, strangled wail, which encourages Duncan to increase the pace and bite at my throat. The heat radiating from me is now as strong as the heat from him, and the stone beneath us no longer feels cold. I'm gasping for breath, still struggling to free myself so that I might tangle with Duncan more fully, but they refuse to release me, and all that I can do is arch into his every thrust. He sees my frustration and laughs.

_He always had control issues_. The thought sears through my mind, so clear as to distract me from my pleasure. For a moment, it feels as though the world is spinning, but then Duncan's mouth finds my own and the pain behind my eyes fades. I hiss and moan into his mouth as the other two Wardens continue nibbling at my skin. My nerves, tightly wound as they are, overpower me in a rush, and I cease resisting my captors for a few seconds as my brain attempts to remember how one breathes.

No. I'm done being restrained. As air rushes into my lungs again, I shriek and bite at the Warden near my face, at the same time kicking at the one near my feet. They fall back in surprise, and before Duncan can restrain me himself, I have wrapped my arms and legs around him. "My turn," I growl, lapping at his earring, and cling as he pulls me off the floor. We switch positions in an instant, and I bear down upon him again with a smile. Why does it always feel so amazing?

He watches me ride him, alternating between grasping me by the hips and teasing at my chest as his coordination allows. I use his facial expressions to guide our rhythm and the strength with which I claw at his chest and shoulders. The haze closes in around us, and my sense of time is replaced by the ragged sound of his breath. Duncan pulls me by the shoulders and kisses me desperately, biting at my lips and goading me on with a low sound made within the back of his throat. Only when my muscles have begun to burn and I'm gasping for breath myself does he pull me close and cling to me like a lost

_dead_

boy.

We lie panting together on the stone for several minutes before I manage to open my eyes and laugh at him. "I seem to remember you telling me you were too old for such exertion."

"I no longer need to save my strength for the battlefield," he grumbles. "How lucky for you."

The pain behind my eyes returns. "But... why Weisshaupt? Why have I not gone back home to Highever? And you, was that not your home?" My eyes hurt again; I'd made plans to visit Highever, for Duncan,

_with Alistair where is Alistair_

had I not? When had our plan changed? "And where is Alistair?"

Duncan frowns and rises to his elbows so that he might disapprove from a better angle. "You are full of questions today."

"I am sorry, but I feel... foggy. I am having difficulty remembering."

"Why would you want to go to Highever?"

_Statue. Never forget Loghain's betrayal_

An inane question. I rub at my temples and rise to my knees. "To see how it is faring! I cannot just abandon my people! And what about my brother?"

He frowns. "Safe at home, with your parents. Where else would he be?"

No. I stand completely now, and he rises with me. When I take three steps backward, he has the gall to look hurt. "I was not wrong. You are dead."

"Obviously, you are mistaken." Duncan's arms stretch out toward me, and for a moment I want to fall against his chest again and let him comfort me as he did after my parents—

"No, you _are_ dead. As are my parents, and my brother. What have you done with Alistair?" His eyes narrow.

"Alistair is no longer your concern."

"He is a Grey Warden, as am I. He is as much my concern as the darkspawn I should still be out there fighting!"

Duncan shakes his head. "Why can you not be happy?" Another step forward, and the clink of armor. We are both dressed again, and my knives are strapped to my back, atop armor that I hadn't been wearing when I entered the hall.

_Fade in the Fade kill him_

"Why can you not just accept the peace I have given you?" Duncan's voice, but something is wrong. It is neither as low nor as rich as I remember it being during our walk to Ostagar.

I hear a bowstring being drawn back, and see one of the other two Wardens out of the corner of my eye. The second must be behind me. As Duncan draws his sword and lunges, I whirl and bury my blades in the throat of the mage. If my time in the Circle Tower has taught me anything, it is to take down the healers first.

Duncan's dagger grazes my back as I sprint for the archer. He too falls quickly, and soon I'm left facing off against my lover.

"Do not make me do this. Do not die like Ser Jory," he pleads, but his eyes are angry.

"You once told me that if I ever drew on another Warden, you would chain and abandon me." 

He pauses. "Are you asking for mercy after killing two of your fellows?"

I shake my head. "No. The three of you drew your weapons first. Even when you killed Ser Jory, he drew before you did. Whatever you are, you are _not_ Duncan, and I shall not stay here with you."

"As you wish, Evie." His sword raises, and he charges me again. I step aside and let the force of his swing bring his back into reach. One knife to the kidney, the pommel of the other to the base of the skull. As he stands stunned, desperately attempting to keep his blade in his hands, a sweep of my knives cleaves his head from his shoulders. Duncan's blood drenches me in an instant as he falls to the floor before me, but I stare down at his corpse with no regret or remorse. Only shaking hands and heaving breaths, both fueled by the strength of my anger at whatever has beguiled me, and at myself for so willingly believing it.

"Duncan would never have fallen so easily," I mutter to the body at my feet, and clean my blades on the robes of the fallen mage.

The haze seems to have cleared slightly, and as it does the corresponding fog in my brain dissipates, and I remember

_the Sloth Demon_

the Sloth Demon. Alistair, Absolon, Leliana and I had traveled to the Circle Tower after convincing Morrigan that she should remain behind at camp with Sten. I didn't want her running afoul of the Templars, and Sten had no interest in any detour that wasn't directly related to darkspawn and the fighting thereof.

But it's never as easy as one expects when planning, as Father loved to remind me while we were looking over old maps and discussing the more important battles in the war against Orlais. At the Tower we had discovered most of the mages either possessed or dead, and the Templars waiting for orders to wipe out the survivors "in the interests of safety."

Ridiculous. The cowards did not wish to fight the demons, so were willing to slaughter innocents to save themselves. Convincing the head Templar to let us in to seek survivors ourselves was simple, and we had been in the process of tracking down the First Enchanter so that we might be let back _out_ again when we'd run afoul of a demon of our own.

_The Fade_. I'm in the Fade, then, in a dream world created by the Sloth Demon and his lesser minions. If I am, then so must be Alistair and Absolon and....

Wait. The white-haired mage from Ostagar; had I not seen her? Yes, Wynne. Our reunion had briefly caused me to entertain a hope that my brother and Duncan might yet live, which must have been what allowed the demon to trap me here. Mother would be ashamed of me. Or, perhaps horrified that I had just bedded a demon.

No. This is all a fantasy. My body is still lying in the Circle Tower a floor below our destination, and I need to get back to it if I wish to save the mages... and if I wish to survive. But how?

My eyes are becoming accustomed to the strangeness of the scenery now that my brain has accepted this all as an illusion. Not far behind the collapsed corpse of Duncan is a pedestal wrapped in gloom. When I step close to inspect it, there is a horrible wrenching sensation, and I'm deposited near a mage who seems familiar.

Niall. He had been unconscious at the feet of the demon, and it was in trying to save him that I'd gotten the rest of us trapped. Of course he has no idea who I am, and appears to have given in and accepted his fate. "I'm cold. Can you feel how cold it is?"

Useless. But what he tells me of the area proves useful, and as a result I learn how to work my way toward the others, and then to the center where the demon is lurking. If I can kill it, we'll all be freed. I attempt to convince Niall to travel with me, but he insists that it's of no use and that we're all going to die. It seems pointless to smack him knowing that there's no physical body to strike, so I promise myself that I shall when we've all regained our bodies, then begin my search for Alistair and my other party members. I led them here, I took them inside the Tower, and I'm not simply going to allow them to _die_ while following me.

What I find first is a man who has learned to become a _mouse_. I'm unable to save him from the demon he had run afoul of, but he does pass his power on to me before he dies, and so I'm able to sneak from place to place. In a similar fashion I become immune to fire, able to pass through keyholeless doors, and strong enough to break down reinforced barriers, though I have to remind myself frequently that it is only a dream to keep from feeling rather ill. Meanwhile, the fevered visions of other dreamers and actual demons fall to my blades.

By the time I stumble across where Absolon is being kept, I'm compiling a list of different blows I'm going to strike on the Sloth Demon before he dies. My hound is napping, and as soon as I rouse him, barks happily and tears off into the gloom. No nightmares for him, then: does the demon not know how to cater to mabari, or is my hound less gullible than I?

Finding Alistair makes me inclined to believe that it's the former. Walking into his dream feels like prying into his personal life, and his happiness at seeing me only makes the sensation worse. I'm introduced to his sister, Goldanna, and several of her children, and offered one of her "famous mince pies." The demon and I meet eyes, and she seems to decide to play along the moment, and agrees that I should stay for dinner.

It hadn't occurred to me that my companions would be _happy_. Prying him away from the dream almost made me feel guilty. Alistair appeared to want, more than anything, what I had spent my entire life despising: a happy family. I took for granted what he'd never had, and now we are both alone. I feel suddenly shallow for likening his actions post-Ostagar to my teenage brother's needless sulking. It was unfair of me to mock the loss of the only people he had ever felt at home with. He deserves more respect than that.

Like Absolon, Alistair promptly fades once freed from the demon's thrall; I hope that they have regained their bodies. Wynne is easy to find, but the nightmare they have left her in is harder to tear her from than Alistair's happy fantasy. She believes that she has failed the Tower, and let her charges die.

I'm forced to provoke her into anger to make her see reason, but it is the demons themselves that free her: as distraught as she is, Wynne knows that the dead aren't supposed to rise again and implore her to remain with them forever. I don't have time to ask how she feels before she, too, has left me.

All that's left is the Sloth Demon. When I reach the center of his demesne, I find the others I have freed. By now, they are as livid as I, and our captor stands no chance. He falls quickly to our rage, and before we escape we are told by Niall how to fight the rest of the blood mages that are responsible for the possessions, demons, and deaths. We are also told that he's too weak to return with us. As I protest, my vision swims.

 ~*-*~

 I grow tired of coming to in awkward positions on stone. I grow tired of trying my best to save people, only to have them die at the last moment. Mother, Niall, refugees on the road to the Circle Tower. I take the spell meant to aid us from his cooling hands, and a ring from his finger to remember him by. Without him, I never would have known how to escape the Fade, but without me, no one will ever remember how he tried to save the people he loved. I add the ring to the chain supporting the pendant I had been given at the Joining, and a morbid part of me wonders if the links will break under the strain of such mementos before the end.

The blood mage leader is easier to find than he is to fell, though his death is less difficult to bring about than I had expected after hearing all the tales of the strength of their forbidden magic. The Tower is saved, and of the hundreds of mages that once lived here we've succeeded in saving a mere handful. But the First Enchanter remains grateful nonetheless, and promises to send aid when it's time for us to face the darkspawn horde once more. I leave with Wynne and a foul feeling in the pit of my stomach. This doesn't feel like the victory that everyone is insisting it is. We reunite with Leliana on the main floor, where she had been helping the other mages guard the children, and put the Tower and its nightmares behind us.

When we return to our campsite, I find that Sten has pitched all of our tents, and Morrigan has begun curing several wolf hides to line them with and keep our bedding clean. "I even have one for Alistair, since the smell of wild dog should make him feel quite at home," she informs me, and I thank her for her thoughtfulness.

Sten's welcome is far less amicable: he marches up to me and frowns the instant I'm away from Morrigan. "Do not leave me alone with her again."

I raise an eyebrow. "It was your idea to remain here, if you will remember."

"Yes, but her incessant prattle was enough to make me wish that I were dead."

I almost laugh before I realize how unlikely it is that Sten is joking. "Very well. We shall visit the dwarves, next, and you are welcome to come along."

"Underground. Not ideal. Are there darkspawn there, or is this another needless detour?"

This time I _do_ smile. "That is where the darkspawn live when not raiding our lands. If we are lucky, we shall fight a few."

"...Very well. As long as she does not come with us."

"Honestly, Sten, I cannot promise that. We all have the same goal, and her magic is exceedingly useful. Now, have you met Wynne?" I add before he can grumble.

The qunari's eyes seek out our new arrival, who is busy chatting with Leliana. "Another woman?" He scowls and shakes his head. I sigh and move on before we can argue yet again about how unnatural it is to have female warriors in the party. It often makes me wonder if he has yet realized that _I'm_ a woman, as well, the way he snarls about it to me.

Morrigan has also cooked, but though her stew smells delicious, I find myself without an appetite. While the rest of them eat, I stand watch under a nearby tree, petting Absolon and asking him if he would not rather go hunt. His worried whine is enough to make me realize just how adept my hound is at reading my moods.

Alistair appears to have a knack for it as well; either that or I'm not as skilled at hiding my emotions as is ideal. After he has eaten and listened to Leliana play, he walks over and sits down beside me. "Sure you don't want dinner? She's... not a bad cook." The words are spoken grudgingly.

"Perhaps later. I am not very hungry."

He crosses his legs and looks sideways at me with a small smile. "I spent the entire walk back wondering what dream trapped you in the Fade. Is it all right if I ask?"

"Duncan."

"Maker's breath, Evelyn." His expression turns pained. "How... did you get out?"

"I killed him," I say evenly, and then sag against his side. Alistair takes the cue wonderfully and throws an arm around my shoulders. "I killed him and two other Wardens at Weisshaupt."

"I'm so sorry." He rubs at my upper arm.

"No, it was just a demon in disguise. And I knew that when I struck the final blow." I pull away from Alistair and toss a branch for Absolon. "But it made me realize something that has made his _real_ death easier for me."

"Oh?"

"Duncan would have been miserable if he survived all of this. Can you imagine what he would be like, with the Blight over, and nothing left to fight? Can you imagine him growing old and bored?"

Alistair frowns at me strangely. "I can't say that I'm able to, no."

"Dying in battle would have been how he wanted it." Absolon returns, stick in maw, and offers it to Alistair.

"Well, you're not wrong there." He wrests the stick from my hound and hurls it toward Morrigan, who howls in annoyance as she's nearly knocked over by a charging Absolon. I shake my head at him and try very hard not to smile.

"That was unnecessary. She made you dinner!"

"Yes, and she was raised in the Wilds. She should have heard it coming." He turns to face me again. "But you _are_ right about Duncan and how he wanted to die. It doesn't make me feel any better about how all the Wardens were betrayed, though. Or the king," he adds darkly.

"Well, that is what we are going to fix. Stop the Blight, expose Teyrn Loghain's treason, find something appropriately vengeful for Arl Howe, and then build a few memorial statues." I wonder if Wynne knows where Niall was from.

The determination in my voice makes Alistair chuckle. "That's quite a list, you know."

"Father and Mother never liked it when I did something sloppily. We are a _thorough_ family."

He laughs again, then shakes his head. "That reminds me. Thanks again, for the Fade. I don't think Wynne or I would have made it out without you."

I almost ask if he really _does_ have a sister, but decide against it. Now's not the time for such personal questions, especially since I feel terribly awkward over having been in his dream at all.

"You would have realized it was a lie eventually. It took me longer than I would have liked," I add, but do not elaborate when he looks at me curiously. No one needs to know the details of my dream with Duncan and the Wardens. And, as Wynne had mused to me on the walk to camp, as with most dreams, the details are fading already. Soon, perhaps all three of us will be tolerably over our experiences in the Fade.

"Your faith in me is refreshing, and horribly misplaced, I'm afraid," he sighs. "Look, you really ought to eat. Sten's insisting that tomorrow you plan on us striking camp and heading for the mountains, and that's not an easy trip for the underfed." He rises and holds out a hand, and I allow him to pull me to my feet.

"Very well," I frown. It appears that neither of us is inclined to allow the other to brood. "You make a compelling point."

 "First time I've ever heard that," he laughs, and picks a leaf from my hair.


	7. Time to Reflect

I glance up from my dinner to find Leliana, Morrigan, and Alistair wearing similar expressions of bemusement. "What?"

Leliana smiles and turns back to her plate, but Morrigan bares her teeth in that way that's guaranteed to make Alistair bristle. "I know that 'twas Alistair's night to cook, but even still I see no reason to eat as though the rabbit is at risk of leaping off of your plate. I assure you, after the treatment he's put it through, 'tis quite dead."

I frown in confusion. "I am hungry. We have walked far today, and most of it was uphill!"

"Yes, but you are the only one of us who seems intent upon _wearing_ her supper. I thought 'twas the cloistered sister's job to provide us with dinner and a show?"

Alistair narrows his eyes at Morrigan. "Leave her alone."

"Would you prefer I speak to you, then? She, at least, has wits sharp enough to defend herself. Even if you _were_ as well-equipped, I fear you might fall on them."

"Cute," he mutters, and silently passes me the rest of his plate. I feel like a terrible glutton for remaining famished after my own share, but gratefully finish his anyway. I'm so hungry that I have not even had time to decide how the food _tastes_.

"By all means, have the rest of mine, if you wish," Morrigan continues. "I will not be able to stomach all of it."

Surely I am not going to—but yes, I take her plate as well. As I bite into her share of hare, Morrigan tilts her head curiously. "In fact... was it not _your_ night to cook? I'm sure Alistair's turn has already come and gone. The char patterns on his last effort were quite memorable."

Leliana and Alistair glance guiltily at one another: we had been hoping that no one would notice if my shifts were covered by someone else. Before they can attempt to answer the question, I swallow and risk honesty. "Actually, it was, but I never learned how to cook."

I expect more venom from Morrigan, and am prepared to find solace in the fact that Sten has taken it upon himself to bathe rather than spend dinner with us, and so will not overhear this admission. But to my surprise, she gives me a level stare. "Well, then we must teach you. If you agree to take my turn tomorrow, I'll show you how to make a stew, assuming your mutt brings us another one of those poor creatures we all seem insistent on pretending are rabbits."

"You have a deal. It will be good to learn from the best cook among us."

The serenity of her expression cracks for the briefest of moments; good, I've surprised her. "T-thank you."

Sten wanders back from the creek, clad only in his trousers, wringing at his dripping braids. I glance around and am pleased to find that I'm not the only person who is daunted by the sheer amount of shirtless qunari before us. His arms and chest are laced with old scars and what appear to be burns.

Sten sits down beside Alistair and reaches for a portion of dinner. I catch a glimpse of his shirt, partially tucked into a trouser pocket, and debate whether or not his expression is more sullen than usual. "What is wrong, Sten?"

His purple eyes flick to mine. "My shirt is ruined."

He tosses it to me for inspection, and I unfold it to discover a gash across the stomach. A moment's thought places the source: an arrow, earlier today. Wynne had healed the wound, but the shirt itself is still stained with blood around the edges of the tear.

"This is nothing a wash and some mending will not fix. You could have cleaned it while you were bathing." And should have; Andraste's ashes, why are all men so _pungent_?

Sten gazes intently at his plate. "I do not sew."

Of course not. I suspect that suggesting he learn will not be helpful, so I look to Leliana. She stifles a smile. "I will wash it for you when we bathe, Sten. If Wynne has a needle, I can even mend it for you."

When he grumbles, I shake my head. "You are not running around in chainmail with no shirt. Not only is it pointless, but it would be painful."

"I have been through worse," he replies, but stops scowling long enough to thank us.

"Well, come on, Evelyn," Leliana smiles, and I frown at her.

"I never agreed to bathe. The water is bound to be cold." I'm beginning to miss my copper bathtub and the servants who filled it whenever I wished. It's difficult to find a balance between the chill of a river and the level of smell I can tolerate before wishing I were dead.

"So we will take Morrigan along, and she will heat it up for us!" She turns her blue eyes on the mage and gives her a merry smile.

Morrigan crosses her arms. "What makes you think I would do that?"

"If you do, I will let you borrow my brush, and we can fix your hair afterward."

I smile at Alistair; Leliana has picked an excellent weakness by targeting Morrigan's vanity. "Very well," she sniffs.

Because of this, I'm able to _enjoy_ stepping into the water and wetting my hair. Leliana sees to Sten's shirt while Morrigan and I wash, and by the time she has joined us, I'm working at a rough patch of skin on my upper back.

"Are you intent on making yourself bleed?" asks Morrigan, and I sigh.

"It is a chafe mark from my armor. If you actually wore _clothes_ , you would recognize it."

"You should have mentioned it before," Leliana scolds, wading closer and brushing her fingers across the mark. "I have something in my tent that you can use to soften the skin there. I use it on my bow arm when the string burns me."

"I wondered how you were managing to keep your complexion so well," I sigh.

"It's hard work, out here in the wild. Especially for us soldiers," she giggles. "Maybe the qunari are on to something, with their women not going to war."

"How _bored_ they must be," Morrigan muses.

I step out of the water and begin toweling off. "May I use your brush as well, Leliana? I have been neglecting my hair."

"Of course! Let the three of us dry off, and we can go see to our hair."

"No one has ever styled my hair for me," Morrigan says.

"Then you are missing out!"

Alistair and Sten are sparring when we return; I suggested that the qunari become acquainted with his gear, and as a result he has been abusing the Templar for as long as an hour each evening. Watching them hasn't become less amusing over our days on the road; if anything, observing how quickly they're learning from one another is fascinating. Sten has become much more adept at parrying Alistair's quick thrusts, while Alistair's shieldwork has made him less likely to be overpowered by one of the qunari's powerful swings.

It feels lovely to be clean, and the wolf pelts that Morrigan cured for us prevent me from feeling instantly dirty when I sit down near the fire. True to her word, Leliana walks to her pack and begins rummaging around, returning with a fine hairbrush and a small jar. She passes the brush to Morrigan, who lets her hair down and begins to work out the worst of the tangles. I assume that Leliana will mend Sten's shirt first, but she lays it out to dry beside the fire, then advances on me with the jar in hand.

"Lift up your shirt," she orders.

Alistair stumbles, and Sten nearly knocks him unconscious with a pommel strike. I pretend that I didn't notice, and shake my head at Leliana. "I can do it myself. It is no trouble."

"On your back? Don't be silly! She falls to her knees behind me and tugs at the hem of my shirt. "Just face the boys, and they will not see anything."

With a sigh, I pull my shirt over my head, letting it hang loose around my arms and across my front. Sten holds out a hand to help Alistair to his feet as Leliana unclasps my breastband and exposes my back. I hear the sound of the container being unsealed before Alistair shakes off the last of his daze and charges at Sten again.

"Oh, that is _freezing_ ," I complain, and she laughs at me.

"Sorry. I like that kind of cold on my skin. Next time I will warm it up for you." She refastens my breastband, and I pull my shirt back on. "Morrigan, let me do that. You have lovely hair."

"If you must," the mage sighs, but appears content all the same. As Leliana works her fingers through Morrigan's hair, drying and straightening it, the tense set of the mage's shoulders eases. Yet again, our bard is taming our wild creature.

Once it is clean, dry, and free of tangles, Leliana puts it back into Morrigan's customary twist. "There! Thank you. I am always jealous of women with long hair."

"You may brush mine as often as you wish, then," Morrigan laughs. "'Tis a nightmare to care for it on my own."

I'm attacked in a similar fashion, and forced not to grumble as Leliana braids my hair into low pigtails. I comfort myself with the hope that these will be less uncomfortable underneath my helmet than loose hair, but don't like the mischievous grin that crosses Alistair's face when Sten finally allows him to escape and join us. He sits beside me, panting, and tugs on one of the braids. "Not the most imposing thing I've ever seen you wearing."

"Isn't she adorable?" the bard giggles, and it takes all of my willpower not to flush. "Now, I need to find a needle so Sten can have his shirt back!" She rises to her feet and walks to Wynne's tent, which the mage had insisted on setting up for the night.

"I hope she is okay," I sigh.

"Who, Wynne? Just tired, I expect. Emotionally and physically." Alistair shakes his head. "I worried at first that she wouldn't be able to keep up, but I think she did better with today's walk than I did."

" _She_ is not being accosted by Sten each evening, and also has not been sitting watch." I neglect to mention that I have more than once offered to spar with the qunari, but have thus far been rejected.

"If you're offering to stand watch alone tonight, I wouldn't mind," he sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Another day of these hills might be the end of me."

"Whiner."

"Oh, sure, you call _me_ the whiner. I heard you over here, getting your hair brushed. 'Ow, Leliana, that pulls! Ow, not so hard! My scalp is tender! Maker have mercy!'" When I scowl at his mimicry, he grins.

"You hardly have any hair to speak of," I sulk. "You have no idea what tangles are like."

"It's true, and I'm glad of it, believe me. Anyhow," he grunts, rising to his feet, "if we're taking first watch, I'd better get my bedding set up now so I can collapse into it later."

The nighttime routine of the camp is something I always find oddly soothing: Morrigan retreats first to her edge, leaving the rest of us alone. Then, Leliana works through the stretches I taught her before collapsing onto her bedroll with a heavy sigh. Wynne will usually make an appearance, thanking whoever cooked for dinner, then retreat back into her tent. And finally, Sten will nod at me and lie down, intent upon getting what sleep he can before Alistair and I rouse him and the bard for their watch shift. Alistair and Absolon will join me at the edge of the trees, or atop a nearby rock, and settle in for a long, and typically very dull, five hours. We had decided upon these shifts because Alistair still refused to allow Morrigan to stand watch, and though Sten preferred to watch with him, could not tolerate five hours of disapproving silence and staring. "It's like being back at the chantry!" Thankfully, Sten seemed far more tolerant of Leliana's vivacity than he was of Morrigan's, and she didn't mind that he rarely spoke in return. And so the four of us stand watch, and allow our mages a full night's rest.

My body is adjusting to sleeping in shifts far more quickly than I'd expected. Back at home, five hours of sleep a night would leave me feeling unwell for the entirety of the day, but now I'm able to function normally on half the sleep I was once accustomed to. Alistair appears to have been living in this fashion for some time, now, and Sten and Leliana have proved equally resilient. Thus, it has worked out well for all of us.

Tonight, Alistair seems oddly quiet as he sits beside me. I attribute his silence to exhaustion and play with Absolon until the mabari decides that he, too, wants sleep, and ambles over to my bedroll.

"Lucky beast," Alistair mutters, and I laugh quietly.

"We have a while to go yet."

"Don't I know it." He turns his head to look at me, and I smile. "Look, I've been thinking."

That's rarely a good start to a conversation. "About what?"

"The talk we had about Duncan, and how you've been eating. And I realized that you probably don't know as much about what being a Warden is like as you should."

I try not to bristle. "The way I have been eating?"

"Don't worry, you're not the only Warden to suffer from an increased appetite. I thought that I was going to _die_ , the first few weeks after my Joining. I _think_ it's normal, but when I asked Duncan what changes, all he said was 'you'll see.'"

"How typical," I snort. "But I am sure you can imagine what I will do if you try that line on me."

"Trust me, of all the lines I've thought of trying on you, I'm not dumb enough for that one."

Blast, he actually managed to make me blush. I must be more tired than I was aware. "And just which ones were you considering trying on me?"

"You don't want to know." He gives me a lopsided smile and then continues. "So! Feeling like you're starving to death will go away. How have the nightmares been?"

"Not what I would call ideal."

Alistair sighs. "I hear they're worse for people who join during a Blight. They'll get better, for a while."

"Wait, for a while?"

He coughs and shakes his head at me. "I really, really didn't want to be the one to tell you this. Duncan was supposed to, but I'm pretty sure he never got around to it."

I feel a sudden chill that I'm worried has nothing to do with the weather. "Tell me what?"

"All Wardens die young. You've got about thirty years from your Joining, though knowing _you_ , you'll hang on for a bit longer than the average. The fact is, you've got darkspawn blood in you, and eventually your body can't handle it anymore. When it starts winning, the nightmares get worse."

"...What happens then?"

"Wardens refer to that as 'the Calling.' After that, they usually head to the Deep Roads, where the dwarven empire used to be, and die in battle against the darkspawn. You should probably hear this now, from me, since we're headed to Orzammar."

I think back to Duncan's final words to me, the look on Alistair's face when I told him that I didn't believe Duncan would wish to die of old age, and the strength of the nightmares which had woken him up almost nightly those last few nights of his life. "So Duncan was... "

"Dying," Alistair nods. "He told me so himself. I'm sorry."

 

_How shall we ever fight together?_

_Soon, it will not matter_.

 

Bastard. If he weren't dead, I would hit him. Or kill him again. Or cry. I bury my face in my hands and take several deep breaths. I wish that this news surprised me enough to make me angry; instead, I feel resigned.

"You're taking this better than I expected."

"Really?" I lift my head and stare at him. "What did you expect?"

"Ah, well. To be attacked, actually."

When I throw my arms around him, he flinches, then realizes that I/m asking for a hug and squeezes me tight at the waist. "I really am sorry, Evelyn. I guess it makes sense now why they don't mention any of this stuff before the Joining, though, doesn't it?"

 "If we stop this Blight, it will be worth it," I mumble into his chest. I can't let Highever be taken by the darkspawn. "Are there any _positive_ side-effects of being a Warden?"

 "Well, it's nearly impossible for us to gain weight, so if you're worried about all the eating, don't be. And we need less sleep, for what that's worth."

 "So we burn the candle at both ends, until our time has come." And then we die underground, alone. Duncan's periodic coldness is beginning to make _sense_.

"Pretty much, yeah. Personally, I find it a little embittering that the last thing I'll ever see is a darkspawn's hideous face snarling at me, but at least it puts everything else in perspective."

He brushes a hand over my hair, and I pull out of the hug to look up at him. "Dare I ask for clarification?"

 He drops one arm from me and begins holding up fingers to count his examples. "Raining, and I've got to walk all day in this armor? Not a hideous darkspawn face. Run into a darkspawn band on the road? Not the last one I'll ever see, lucky me! Morrigan's talking again? _Not_ a hideous darkspawn face."

"I see," I chuckle, and shift to sit beside him again. His other arm leaves my side, and he grins down at me.

"Exactly! It could be a lot worse. And at least we get along, right? I can't imagine how awful it would be to despise the only other Warden in Ferelden. At least you and I can die gloriously together, assuming we both—oh, sorry. Now I'm just being morbid."

"No. Well, yes, it is morbid," I clarify when he stares at me in surprise, "but I would rather not die alone, all the same."

"Well, that's settled then," he says with mock cheer. "As soon as you and I can't take the nightmares, off we go."

"Forgive me for not saying 'I cannot wait,'" I grimace.

"That's fine," he smiles. "If you did, I'd be worried. We still have a lot to get done."

"Yes, we do." But we appear to be done speaking for the night, and once our watch is over, I find it difficult to sleep. I may have wanted to be a Warden, some small part of me keeps insisting, but I did _not_ ask for this. But I said the same thing to Mother about my nobles' responsibilities, and to my trainer the first time I left practice too sore to walk normally. I'm always wanting the glory, and the power, without the _price_.

By the time I'm finished feeling juvenile and petty, the nightmares find me, and then the sun rises and signals that it's time to resume our travels. We don our armor in relative silence, pack our bags, and resume our walk north. We've been walking for perhaps half an hour when Sten falls into step beside me near the back of the line.

"Good morning, Sten," I offer, and he gives me a curt nod. "How will you end the Blight?"

"By killing the archdemon." Though neither Alistair nor I have the slightest idea how that is done. The qunari certainly does not need to know that, however.

He frowns. "You speak as though this is some simple task."

"No, I do not. That is how Blights are ended. A Warden slays the archdemon, and the darkspawn lose the ability to organize. You did not ask my opinion on its difficulty, merely how it is accomplished."

"Hmph. You sound defensive."

Yes, and such a surprise that I _would_ be, after such a comment. "Just tired," I sigh. "I am sorry."

"You and Alistair are both Wardens," he continues after a pause, "but so far I am not impressed by either of you. His skills in battle are unremarkable, and I cannot understand why you lead and he does not."

So he _does_ understand that I'm a woman; Morrigan owes me a sovereign. "Our job is not to impress you, thankfully," I smile. "We can kill darkspawn with or without your approval."

"When we are killing darkspawn, you will find me very approving. It is this begging for armies that disturbs me. Soldiers should not be politicians." The qunari shakes his head in irritation.

"In Ferelden, they are often both," I remind him. "A noble is expected to be able to defend their lands and their people."

"And so they have the skills to betray their people for more land. A corrupt system."

"Perhaps," I sigh, "but it is what I must work with, and if taking part in politics will give me the means to stop this Blight, then I shall do so."

"I hope that you do not waste our time."

With each day that passes, I approve of Sten's directness more. At first it had seemed rude, but I've since realized that he's attempting to be blunt rather than inflammatory. Even still, a little bluntness tends to go a long way. I decide to change the topic before my patience wears thin. "How is your shirt?"

His scowl fades into an expression that could almost be considered pleasant. "...Clean. Thank the bard for me."

"Do so yourself!" I laugh. Alistair glances back at us suspiciously from where he's speaking with Wynne, and I wave.

"No," Sten mutters, and I don't to press the issue.

We walk on in silence for several minutes before he speaks again. "I would like to tell you why I was in that cage when you found me."

I make a point of not seeming surprised. "I know some of it already. The revered mother told me that you murdered the family that took you in after finding you wounded."

"...And yet you freed me. Why?"

"In my experience, the victor's side of the story is not always the one closest to the truth."

"If you are expecting me to tell you that I am innocent, you will be sorely disappointed. I killed them with my bare hands."

His violet eyes meet mine unblinkingly, perhaps expecting me to recoil, but this response doesn't surprise me. "Then tell me why you killed them, if you wish."

Unexpectedly, he does. I learn as we walk about his sword, and the importance it has to the qunari. Unlike Fereldan soldiers, a qunari fights with a single sword for his entire life. It's an extension of himself rather than simply a weapon. I consider my father's sword and shield and think that I might have some slight idea of why he panicked when he woke without it in that farmhouse. However, I know better than to say this, so instead I ask where he was found.

"My brothers and I were attacked by darkspawn near Lake Calenhad."

I shake my head in frustration. "I wish that you would have told me all this while we were still there. We might have looked for it."

"How?" he frowns. "It is gone, and that is that. I cannot return to my people without my sword."

"You are welcome to stay with us," I venture, though part of me worries that this will provoke him. "I enjoy your company, Sten."

"...Thank you." He increases his pace and pulls ahead of me then, intent on halting our conversation. I remain at the back of the line and begin drawing more unflattering comparisons between him and a mabari. Though, considering the respect he seems to have for my hound, perhaps it wouldn't offend him, after all.

Absolon has bitten me once in the ten years that we have been together. We were out hunting, and he got one of his legs stuck in a steel trap abandoned by some idiot hunter. The teeth etched into the metal dug deep into his flesh, and I whirled when I heard his howl of pain and rushed to aid him. When he felt my hands upon him, he lashed out blindly and nearly bit through my left forearm. He realized instantly what he had done and began whining in pain and worry, but we both traveled home bloody all the same. Nan went into hysterics the instant she set eyes on us, certain that we had been attacked.

When I explained what happened, she tried to lock Absolon away, and it was only my shrieks of rage and my refusal to let anyone see my arm until his leg had been tended to that changed her mind.

Sten's reaction to losing his sword reminds me of that day. He had come to no longer whole, and so lashed out through his pain against those who were trying to help. It had taken Absolon weeks to forgive himself for biting me; he skulked after me, tail between his legs, and worried at my bandages every chance he had, desperately seeking some way to undo his attack. Even now, when my arm is bare and he sees the scars, I sometimes catch him whining at it. Because he can't undo hurting me, no matter how much he tries, and though I've forgiven him, he'll never forget what he has done.

Like Absolon, Sten appears to be sorry for attacking those who attempted to help him, but unless I can return his sword to him, he'll never heal. The revered mother locked him away and let his wounds fester, and now he is another of my wild creatures, trapped in the land that stole his fellows and his sword, still snarling in pain at anyone who comes too close. I wonder that he managed to tell me what happened at all.

"Copper for your thoughts," says a voice to my left, and I nearly trip in shock. Thankfully, Alistair grabs me by the arm and keeps me on my feet.

"Are you trying to kill me?" I scowl.

"Remember: annoying fellow Warden? _Not_ a hideous darkspawn face. Your dog made me come check on you, didn't you Abbie?"

Absolon growls from my right, and I giggle. "He seems not to like that nickname."

"Too bad, he gets it anyway. Every warhound needs a fluffy nickname."

"And every Templar, perhaps?" I suggest.

Alistair grimaces. "Oh, try me. I've heard them all, I guarantee it."

"They _cannot_ be as awful as what I grew up being called."

"What?" He blinks at me. "All the nicknames I can think of for Evelyn are... cute, actually."

"Yes, well. Remember me telling you that Father used to call me and Absolon his pups? He kept at it, even after we grew up."

"Wait a minute," he laughs. "Your father called you 'pup'? And you _let_ him?" His eyes meet mine, and I don't like the glee that I see within them.

"I have the strangest feeling that I am going to regret telling you that." Absolon barks in agreement, and I pat him on the head.

"Nonsense," he scoffs. "I don't want to be killed in my sleep."

"Hurry up, you two!" Leliana calls. "I can see the mountains from here! Come look!"

Absolon gives a happy bark and speeds toward her. "Race you there," I grin to Alistair, and burst into a run while he's still protesting. By the time he has caught up, muttering about running in plate, the entire party is staring upwards at the view.

"I have never seen mountains before," Morrigan says.

"I suggest keeping your eyes on the path," Sten replies. "Someone is approaching."

He's not wrong; a woman is running toward us at break-neck speed, as though fleeing from invisible bandits. But though she is fair-skinned, she is neither flushed nor out of breath.

"Please! Help! They've attacked the wagon! I'll show you!" she shouts, and turns back the way she came.

"She... is no refugee," Morrigan murmurs in my ear. "Not only is she a _mage_ , but a terrible manipulator."

"Agreed," I frown. "I was a better liar at age seven." And so we approach at a walk, hands near our blades. I'm not surprised when our exit is blocked by a falling tree, or when the sides of the path line with archers. Sten, Wynne, and Leliana are separated from us by the blockade, and I hear the bard shouting angrily as Absolon, Alistair, Morrigan and I prepare to fight.

As I raise my knives, their leader steps into view. I'm taken aback by the fact that the only elf among them is the person in charge, but quickly understand why; the people lining the ridge to our right, and the mage, are clearly mercenaries. The elf, on the other hand, is a _killer_.

"Kill the Wardens," he commands, and the first arrow hisses through the air. Morrigan freezes the offending archer solid, and I glance at Alistair.

"I don't think he likes us much," he grins. My father's sword glints in his hand, and he charges the mage as another arrow narrowly misses my calf. I decide to take that personally and charge the ridge, blades extended. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the elf begin working his way toward me, darting lithely through his men with a knife in each hand.

_Kill the Wardens?_ He may certainly _try._ I decapitate the archer with a frustrated shriek, and then whirl to face my would-be assassin.


	8. Guilt and Pain

I have to alter the watch shifts after our encounter with the assassin. Not only does someone need to monitor the elf, but I'm in no mood to spend more time near Alistair than is absolutely necessary.

"I can't believe you're not _killing_ him," the Templar hissed when I agreed to spare the assassin, dragging me out of earshot by the upper arm and summoning painful memories of Ser Gilmore at the same time.

I shook my arm free and glared up at him. "If we kill him, we lose a chance at information."

"So you're taking him with us because he _might_ know something useful?" Alistair clenched his jaw to prevent his voice from rising. A pointless action; everyone was looking our way already, including the subject of our discussion.

"Would you rather I freed him, to give him a chance to fall back and try again?"

"No, but I also don't want to give him the chance to kill us in our sleep, which is what you seem set on doing!"

Ridiculous. Everyone traveling with us was used to fighting darkspawn by now, and had survived demons and blood mages mere days ago. Compared to that, of what consequence was one lone assassin? Alistair was overreacting. I wanted to tell him this, but it wasn't the proper time. We would need to speak when several sets of eyes were _not_ upon us.

I turned on my heel, leaving my fellow Warden grumbling. He followed after me as I strode back to the elf. "How badly are you injured?"

"Other than a dislocated shoulder and a cut across the ribs from your excellent bladework," he grinned, "I am just a little dizzy."

We needed to take care of that before moving on and attempting to regain the time we lost defending against his comrades. That would require bandages. "Alistair, give me your pack." He passed it over grudgingly, and I rummaged through his spare clothes and equipment until I located one of our injury kits. That nearby, I sank to the ground beside the elf, helped him remove his armor, and then took his arm in my hands.

"Would you like something to bite down on?"

"That depends on what you are offering," he replied. Alistair made a disgusted noise on my behalf, and I ignored the comment completely. Or appeared to, at least.

"Very well." I lifted and twisted more sharply than I needed to. There was a grinding noise, and a pop, and he hissed to himself in Antivan, but didn't flinch. My trainer often told me he wished my pain tolerance were higher; he would have relished meeting this elf.

"Shirt off," I ordered.

That smile of his reappeared. "So soon? Perhaps we should find someplace more private?"

Alistair fell to his knees beside us and took the elf by his shirt-collar. "Keep talking to her like that and I'll dislocate something new."

"I would not mind. It would give her something else to treat, yes?" He paired the words with a blatant sweep of his eyes over my physique. Alistair brought an arm back, preparing to strike, but halted when he felt my hand on his shoulder. His chin brushed against the back of my hand as he turned his head to the side and looked to where I was kneeling beside him.

"He is baiting you," I murmured.

"You're right," he sighed, and I thought I felt him rest his head against my hand for a moment before taking a deep breath and walking away from us both.

"You," I frowned, turning toward the elf again. "Stop talking, or _he_ will be the one bandaging you."

He smiled again, but didn't speak. I took a deep breath and wrapped his chest with clean bandages. He helped me silently, holding the strips in place, yet taking every chance to brush his fingers against  mine. I'm unaccustomed to being treated so familiarly by a complete stranger, and it wasn't long before he'd made me exceedingly uncomfortable. When he leaned in closer than I wished while I was tying the bandages, I pulled away and allowed him to finish for himself. "Get up and walk."

"So cruel, my Warden." Despite his injuries, he rose smoothly to replace his shirt and armor.

"Look, she's not _your_ anything," Alistair snarled from where he was standing beside a silently

disapproving Leliana, then turned on me again. "This is an _awful_ idea, Evelyn. How am I supposed to protect you when you let your would-be murderer travel with us?"

"Stop pretending that you are my elder brother. I am more than capable of tending to myself." I tossed his pack back at him and felt instantly guilty at the hurt in his eyes. Hadn't we agreed to look after one another? Maker's breath, this entire scenario was fast becoming a nightmare.

"The lady has a point," said the elf. "She is a beautiful fighter."

"Now you are baiting _me_ ," I muttered. "Walk. We shall be right behind you."

"I have no idea where we are going."

My anger with myself gave my voice an extra chill. "You will receive directions when needed, elf."

His easy smile faded. "I have told you my name. Perhaps you might use it."

"I will, once you have given me cause." I gestured for him to walk so that we might follow, but he frowned and quite literally dug in his heels.

"Ah, of course. The female Warden, daughter of the Teyrn of Highever. How could I have forgotten that part?" Morrigan and Sten stared at me in surprise, and I forced my shoulders to remain un-tensed. "Waited on by elves all of her life, no doubt." When I refused to respond, his expression hardened. "I am no servant of yours, Warden. Do not speak to me like you would your dog."

"Agreed, then, since I treat my dog with respect." Absolon growled at the elf and sidled closer to me. "But you are mistaken, in any case. I am addressing you as someone who just attempted to eviscerate me not ten feet from where we are standing. Your race is irrelevant."

He shook his head. "Alas, I was aiming for the kidneys. You were just too quick!"

I managed to get everyone walking, finally, though no one spoke for some time. Once it was too dark to travel safely, we found a place to camp for the night. That's when I decided to rearrange the watch shifts.

"Sten," I begin during dinner, looking to where he looms beside our new companion. "You have been complaining that there is not enough for you to do, correct?"

"It was an observation, not a complaint." His eyes meet mine, and he waits for me to continue.

"Allow me to rectify the situation. Your new job is to watch the assassin."

The qunari's gaze shifts to his left, where the elf sits picking at his dinner. "...Very well."

"Then who will I be standing watch with?" Leliana asks.

"Alistair will take second watch with you. Morrigan will take first watch with me."

I expect Morrigan to rail against this idea, but she smiles and passes me my share of dinner. "At last! We adopt a new outcast, and I am now accepted. 'Tis about time."

"Why can't I take first watch?" Alistair sulks. The fact that he doesn't complain at Morrigan being allowed to guard the party only validates her words.

"Because if you stand guard with Morrigan the two of you will bicker endlessly, and no one shall sleep at all."

"Then let the ladies watch together, and you and I will take our normal shift!"

I shake my head. Knowing him, he'll spend the entire time harping about the elf, and I'm in no mood to be patient. That, and I feel awful for snapping at him earlier. "Not tonight, Alistair. I am tired, and our new friend was not the only one injured during today's fight."

He doesn't speak for the remainder of the evening. My mood, oddly enough, is considerably improved by Morrigan during our watch. She begins asking me questions about growing up in Highever, and coaxes me to describe my city, my home, and what my life was like. I remember that she hasn't seen a true city, or an estate, and do my best to paint her a clear picture. In this way, our shift passes quickly, and we retire to our bedrolls to sleep. Sten and the elf are laid out side-by-side near the fire, and as I walk by I see the qunari's eyes open.

"I had wondered why you sleep so heavily," he says to me. "It is not something a soldier does."

If that's his only commentary after learning that I am a noblewoman, I've been blessed indeed. "That is why you are who is watching our new friend," I reply, and he closes his eyes again. Of all of us, Sten is the most likely to awaken if the elf moves in the night and the watch people are off their guard.

The only space clear is to to Sten's left, beside Leliana's bed, so I work on getting comfortable while Alistair and our bard rise for their shift. Based upon the ache behind my eyes, I manage to sleep for two hours before the archdemon's shrieks plunge me into consciousness. When I bolt upright with a gasp, Sten is already sitting cross-legged and fully alert beside me.

"Did I wake you?" My voice sounds thick; I must have been muttering in my sleep again.

He doesn't turn his eyes from the fire. "No."

"What are you doing awake?"

"Watching him." The qunari directs my attention to the elf, who is also wakeful, and staring at me curiously.

"And what has he been doing?"

"Watching you."

"Maker's breath," I sigh, and run my hands through my hair. As I rub at my eyes and attempt to become coherent, the elf moves to sit between me and Sten.

"Do you have nightmares often?"

"Most nights," I reply, glancing about for Alistair and Leliana. They're under a nearby tree, speaking quietly. His face looks pained, and what I can hear of her voice sounds comforting. I'll need to apologize to him soon, which is a rather underdeveloped skill of mine. "All Wardens do."

"I see." He holds out a hand toward me and doesn't leer. "I want to tell you that it was not personal. Loghain paid money to my employers, and I received the contract."

"...Thank you." When I place my hand in his, he clasps it politely, and then releases me. "If you will allow me," he continues, "I should like to help."

"Fight, you mean?"

"You can't say that I am not a good fighter. I winded you earlier, and that is no easy task, I am sure."

Flattery. Better than obscenity. "That would involve giving you weaponry."

"Naturally. And I would turn them against your enemies." He grins again, and I catch myself wondering who'd taught him to smile like that. Few _women_ are blessed with those sorts of lips; Mother would have been horribly jealous of him, if her reaction to mine were any indication. In that feature I took after my grandmother.

"If you do not mind having a qunari shadow," I reply, gesturing at Sten, "I suppose I can take you at your word. I will return your blades to you in the morning, but he shall take them from you each night."

"I am not a babysitter," the qunari frowns.

"No, you are not," I sigh, "but I trust no one else with this."

This appears to mollify him. "What do you expect me to do should he disobey?"

"Tear his arms off."

"And yet, this arrangement is still better than any of the alternatives," sighs the elf as he rises and moves back to the blanket Wynne produced for him. "Thank you, Warden."

I nod and decide to eschew another sleep attempt, instead rising to find Alistair. Leliana, when she sees me approach, instantly bolts for the fire to give the two of us the opportunity to talk freely. That's less than reassuring.

He doesn't speak as I sit down beside him; he's still angry with me, then. I spend a few moments attempting to remember what Father and Nan always tried to tell me about apologies, but all that comes to mind are my mother's attempts, which always contained more bluntness than placation.

"I did not mean it," I manage at last.

He turns his head away from me. "Which part, exactly? The part where you chose to endanger yourself, or yelled at me for worrying about you?"

"The second one." I shake my head. "I should not have said it. I have been angry at myself all day, but I wanted to give both of us an opportunity to calm down before I spoke to you."

He faces me then, but still isn't smiling. "And have you always been this good at making people feel awful for caring about you?"

I think of my mother, and father, and Ser Gilmore. And Duncan, more likely than not. "Yes."

"...Right. And now I feel bad for asking." He holds his arms out, and I obligingly lean in for a hug. He's warm, and I'm tired. "Shouldn't you be trying to sleep?"

"Archdemon," I sulk into his chest.

"One of these days, we need to shut that bastard up."

"We will, soon enough."

But first, there are the mercenaries on the road, who want to tell us that "Loghain sent his regards." After they're sufficiently dead, more of the teyrn's men are at the gates to the dwarven city, demanding to be admitted. They're denied entry, but we aren't, and it almost comes to blows again.

I send Morrigan, Sten, the elf, and Leliana to find a place to camp, and take Alistair, Absolon, and Wynne inside. As soon as we enter the city, I begin to regret it. The king recently died, and there are two men vying for the throne: the king's son, and the former advisor. A political power play turns into a bloodbath not more than five minutes after our admission, and by the time we're done being approached by ranking members from each side, asking for backing, I have half a mind to leave the city to its own devices and take my chances with the Dalish elves. But their territory is on the other side of the country, and we are promised troops by each side if their man took the throne. While we debate, we walk, and tour the rest of the thaig.

The King's son is a progressive, which has its appeal, but he's also a conniving monster completely lacking of a conscience. I choose to back the king's advisor, and as a result am entered into a tournament of sorts against several dwarven fighters. Before my first match, Alistair crosses his arms and shakes his head at me, asking if I wouldn't rather he fight instead.

"Of course not!" I laugh, brandishing my knives. "I love this sort of thing!"

"So do I," he pouts. " _And_ I didn't crack my ribs yesterday!"

"Wardens heal quickly, remember?" But I capitulate in the end and allow him to second me in the paired match. It probably is more fun than it should be, once he and I have gotten used to aiming _down_ : the dwarves, to put it bluntly, have no idea how to handle us. I win the tournament easily, and my prize is a meeting with the king's advisor, who then tasks me to bring their crime lord under control in his name. I refrain from explaining to him that I am neither his servant nor his mercenary, though Absolon's restless growling may have gotten the point across all the same. Regardless, we agree to look into it, and leave the city for our camp feeling exhausted.

At least it's a clear night, and full of stars. I tell Alistair as we sit watch that after spending a full day in their city that I believe I can safely say _I despise the dwarves._

Day two doesn't prove me wrong. Today I take Sten, his charge, and a very tense Alistair into the city to make good on my promise to the king's advisor. Cracking a few lackey's skulls gained us entry into their hideout, but now we're at an impasse. The halls are flooded with dwarves and other mercenaries, some of them qunari. I worried at first that Sten would be unwilling to fight against his people, but the angry roar he gave when he saw the first of them quickly convinced me otherwise.

"Deserters," he grumbles from my left, stabbing the last of them into the floor with his greatsword.

"And yet you wonder why I wish to stay with you Wardens," the elf smiles at Alistair. "My employers would not be as merciful as Sten."

"Few are merciful like our Sten," Alistair mutters, giving me a sidelong glance. I try not to laugh and busy myself with disarming yet another of their fire traps. It gives way with a reluctant shriek, and we proceed on down the hall.

It doesn't take us long to reach their leader, a dwarf named Jarvia, and she has the gall to order her minions to keep me alive because she has "plans" for me.

"At least she called you pretty, no?" laughs the elf, drawing his daggers and glancing around at the tightening circle of dwarves.

"I have plans for you, too," Alistair grumbles, swinging at a nearby rogue. "They involve you _not_ being captured by a group of thugs."

"I like your plan better than hers." My knives slice into the warrior attempting to flank Sten, and then the battle becomes chaos.

I fell two of her sidekicks before taking a mace to the ribs. The qunari is having difficulty hitting the dwarves because of their height difference, and soon he's surrounded and bleeding. I shake off my pain and backstab one of his aggressors, only to be shield-slammed by another. I land on my back, winded, and see a sword raised, preparing to stab me—

—then fall from the hands of its owner as the dwarf crumples at the elf's feet. He holds out a hand and helps me regain my feet. "He wasn't a very good listener, was he? That was a killing blow!"

"Thank you, Zevran," I gasp, looking around for Alistair. Blast it, he's been cut off, and Jarvia is sniping at him with her bow.

"Call me Zev. If we are killing together, there is no need for formalities!" He whirls and backstabs another of the dwarves irritating Sten as I lunge for those surrounding Alistair. Since they're distracted by him, their backs are exposed, and with my aid they fall easily.

"Maker," says Alistair, kicking at one of the dwarves at our feet.

"Where is the ringleader?" calls Sten. "I do not see her body."

Blast it. I hear something behind me and whirl just in time to dodge an attack. Sten and Zevran rush toward her and are caught in another fire trap.

"Stay there!" I shout. "She has put up more!"

I parry another blow as Alistair bashes her with his shield. When she recovers, she turns on him, apparently deciding that he's the greater threat. I flank her and weaken her main hand with a stab to the shoulder as she takes an arrow to the thigh; Zevran is firing at her from the other side of the line of traps. Jarvia shrieks in pain and kicks me away, then stuns Alistair with a blow to the throat. She lunges for him as he stands, choking and dazed, blades aimed at his jugular. I manage to kick his legs out from under him, and so she misses and then turns to me in rage.

One knife to the solar plexus, pinning her before me, and then a quick slash at her neck decapitates her. She sags to the ground beside Alistair, who is rubbing at his throat, and I lower my knives.

"That," he says hoarsely, "is a _lot_ of blood."

He's not wrong; it's dripping from my blades, and splattered across my face and chest, but the bitch is dead, Alistair is safe, and the appropriate _plans_ have been made reality. I flick the worst of the blood from my knives to the floor before sheathing them and helping my fellow Warden to his feet.

"That's another one," he sighs.

"We are _not_ counting how many times one of us saves another," I frown, and attempt to ignore the strange look Sten is giving me.

"No, that would be boring. Rather, I think we should compete for points," interjects Zevran, and I walk over to disarm the rest of the traps. "Whoever fells the most dwarves wins, no?"

The thought has its appeal once we return to the king's advisor and are promptly told that he has one more task for us before he can uphold his promise. I retreat, livid, to our camp for dinner, after ordering the others to be silent until I broached the subject around the fire. Leliana helps patch me and Alistair up as Wynne sees to Sten and Zevran, and only once everyone has been bandaged do we sit for dinner.

"Honestly, you should have taken me with you today," Wynne chides as she sews up a hole in Alistair's shirt. He's sitting beside me in his trousers with the corresponding arrow wound tightly bandaged. "If I had been along to heal it _then_ , he wouldn't scar."

"Hey, I don't mind a few scars," Alistair grins. "Makes me look manly."

"It might at that, if you acquire four or five more," Morrigan replies.

"I am sorry that I left you, Wynne" I sigh. "But I promised Sten that he could fight once we reached Orzammar, and where he goes, Zevran does, at least for the time being."

"You said that I would be fighting darkspawn," frowns the qunari, "not tiny bandits."

"We shall see our share of darkspawn tomorrow, when we leave for the Deep Roads to find that dwarf for Harrowmont," I mutter.

"The Deep Roads?" Morrigan repeats. "'Tis more than a one-day trip, from what I have been told."

"Yes, it is."

"And whom shall you be taking with you underneath the mountain?"

"We are _all_ going," I reply, and am entirely unsurprised to hear protestation.

"I do not wish to go," frowns Morrigan. "I see no reason why the rest of us cannot simply remain here at camp and wait for you to return."

"Because I have no idea how long I will be gone, or how far into the tunnels we will be venturing. We must all go together, so that we keep in proper contact."

"If there are darkspawn there, I will gladly follow," Sten says, and I thank him quietly.

"And so shall I, then," mutters the elf.

"I promised to help Evelyn." Leliana smiles at me. "I will go where she says."

"You realize that acting like her lap dog will not _actually_ gain you access to her lap, do you not?" is Morrigan's reply. The bard flushes scarlet and leaves the fire without another word.

"That was unnecessary."

"Was it? If you do not see her interest, then you are as naïve as the boychild," she retorts, pointing at Alistair. "Why do you think that she cares for your hair, and your mending, and your wounds, if not out of a desire to see and touch more of your skin than is normally visible?"

"Because she is my friend?"

"Then do you find it rude of me that I have not done the same?"

I shake my head and resist the temptation to tell her that the thought is likely to give me nightmares. "Of course not! People are different."

"Indeed," she smiles. "Quite different. For example, she desires to bed you, and I do not."

" _Enough._ We are all leaving for the Deep Roads tomorrow, and Morrigan, you are standing watch with Alistair tonight. I swear by the Maker that if you wake me up by fighting with him, you will cook every night we are below ground."

She crosses her arms. "And if he should wake you by fighting with me?"

"Then you are cooking every night for baiting him, and he shall be carrying my pack." I rise without warning, offer the rest of my plate to Absolon, and stamp off in search of water. _When conversations get heated, pup, always cool your face before resuming them_. Father had more likely than not meant that figuratively, but Mother and I had the same temper, and she had always washed her face when she was annoyed at me.

A bonus of being so high in the mountains is the chill of the nearby stream; the water is so cold that it makes my temples ache. The sips I take almost burn, and soon I'm deliciously chilled and feeling much calmer. I remove my shirt, use it to dry my face, and stand with a sigh.

When I turn, I almost run into Sten's chest. He's giving me the same strange look that he has been since I felled Jarvia earlier in the day. I replace my shirt hastily and stare up at him, too flustered to speak.

"You make no sense. You look like a woman."

This again? "I _am_ a woman, Sten." He had just received clearer proof of that than any of the other men in the party, so it's a wonder that he still doubts.

He shakes his head and frowns down at me. "When I learned that you were a noble, that made sense. You lead well. They call you a Warden, but I thought that they were wrong. Perhaps you led, but did not fight."

I cross my arms. "What is wrong with me fighting?"

"That you fight at all. You fight like a man, and so you must be a Warden. But you are a woman. It makes no sense." His brow furrows as he gazes down at me.

"Fereldan women fight," I remind him. "Leliana fights, and that does not seem to bother you."

"Leliana is a priestess and an entertainer who also owns a bow. But you are a soldier. Women can't be soldiers."

I'm pleased to hear Sten say that; until recently I wouldn't have considered myself anything more than a leader. "I am not sure how to explain this to you any more clearly than I have already. Women in my family are always soldiers. I was taught to fight from a young age."

He nods. "But I still do not understand why you would wish to be a man."

"I assure you, I am quite happy being female."

"Did your parents wish you were male, then?"

"I—what? Sten, no!" I laugh helplessly. "Please, you must trust me on my word. I am a woman, but I am also a Warden. That happens in our land, and is not considered strange. I still like men, and plan to marry and have children one day!" Assuming I survive the Blight, in any case. And get my lands back, and a host of other problems are solved beforehand.

"Then you are not a soldier," he frowns.

"Not like a qunari is a soldier, no. But you knew that already. I am a noble who has been raised to fight, which is enough to make me a Grey Warden. And I will die on the battlefield, protecting my people from the darkspawn. But that does not make me a man." He shakes his head again, and I sigh. "This is going nowhere. Suffice it to say that there is no place for me in your homeland, and trust that I can fight, lead, and still be a female in my own country."

"Very well. But you are still strange."

"There are many who would agree, I assure you." We walk back to camp in silence, and I do what stretches I can with sore ribs while everyone prepares for sleep. Leliana is already in her tent, but responds when I tell her that I'll be her watchmate for the evening.

Alistair wakes me several hours later, and I join her beneath the tree she has selected.

"Thank you," the bard says as I sit beside her. "I did not want to see Morrigan tonight."

"Nor did I, believe me." I pick up a leaf and begin to shred it. "What she said was beyond rude."

"I didn't leave because I was mad at her," Leliana admitted. "I was worried that she would scare you into not wanting to talk to me anymore."

"Nonsense," I scoff. "You are a dear friend of mine, Lel. Catty words will not change that."

She gives me a weak smile. "Good. I like talking to you. I feel like I can tell you anything, and that you will not judge me."

"You would do the same for me."

"Yes, I would," she sighs. "It is as you said: we're good friends. But you never seem to need it. How are you so strong?"

I consider telling her that she should have seen me before Lothering, or the night my castle burned around me, but decide that would be unwise. It's difficult to be both a friend and a leader. Friends can share weaknesses; leaders should not. I have no choice with Alistair, because he has already seen me in various moments of weakness, and feeling like he can sometimes take charge actually makes him a better companion. But it would be unwise to burden Leliana with my troubles. She may think that I'm unaware of it, but she has enough of her own. And so I smile, and offer a hug, and am surprised when she bursts into tears in my arms.

This has been the _strangest_ evening, I muse to myself, and stroke her hair until she is calm again.


	9. Fate Worse than Death

_So this is where I'll go to die_. The thought keeps appearing, quite unwanted, in my head as we navigate the crumbling and darkspawn-infested passages that were controlled by the dwarves in the days when they still had a population sufficient to hold their empire. It's the first thought that I have upon waking from my nightmares, which become both louder and more frequent as we move farther into the tunnels in search of Branka, the dwarf I'm told will have enough political power to put a king on the throne of Orzammar again.

It's the thought that makes me speak less, and eat less, and smile less, though the ever-present darkness has subdued my companions, as well. Our first stop is an abandoned city, long decayed and filled with golems, darkspawn, and the tormented souls of dwarves who witnessed the fall of their homeland. It takes us two days to search the area fully, and Alistair, Wynne, Leliana and I nearly die at the hands of a nest of enormous venomous spiders during our foray.

My brother and I used to play explorers in the storage section of the castle basement when we were growing up. One day, I was scaling a crate to survey the mountain pass we had just discovered when the boards beneath my feet gave way. Spiders had nested within the crate's interior; when I fell, I was tangled in webbing, and soon felt hundreds of tiny legs skittering across my body. I was a girl of five, at the time, and naturally screamed and cried and stripped off my clothes while running for an adult who could make it better. Nan took me to the kitchen and rinsed me off, but for weeks afterward I had nightmares of being eaten alive by spiders. I sneaked into my mother's sewing room a month later and cut my hair short because I was convinced that they were still in my hair, nesting and living where I could not see.

I had forgotten about that incident until I come across the first spider, easily twice my size, dangling from a web in the middle of the passage. I shriek and duck behind Alistair, who looks up, shouts "Maker!" and stabs it through the abdomen reflexively. It dies quickly, but its final throes summon more, and soon we're surrounded.

My hands are shaking as we fell the last of them, and I hope that no one notices. We press on more cautiously, and more spiders come in waves. These had been feeding on darkspawn, and are just as twisted as the wolves and bears we'd seen on the surface before reaching Orzammar. But we're doing well until we encounter the matriarch: after I get two solid hits on her, she traps me in a web and surges forward, and I find myself surrounded by legs.

The sound is awful. Her exoskeleton clatters like bones against the stone and rustles like dead twigs against my armor as she attempts to find a soft spot to sink pincers into. I lie on the tunnel floor, arms crossed before me, knives forming a protective X across my face and elbows, and scream as she struggles to reach my face and neck.

She is knocked from me as quickly as she pinned me, and I'm momentarily deafened by Alistair's angry screams as he forces her back with my family's shield. Wynne heals me as I struggle to my feet, and I shiver as lacerations close as quickly as they had opened, leaving me spattered in my own blood.

Minutes later, the creature is finally dead, and I sink to my knees, half-sobbing in panic.

Alistair casts aside his sword and shield and rushes to my side. "Evelyn! Evie! Are you okay?" His arms encircle me tightly, and I curl against his armor.

"Hate spiders," I manage in a small voice, and he bursts into relieved laughter.

Wynne approaches with her waterskin and sits with me while I recover, chatting pleasantly until I'm adequately distracted from what has just happened. Alistair and Leliana have returned with a faded journal they found discarded near the western exit to the city by the time I can hold my blades without them sounding like chattering teeth.

"It's written in dwarven," the bard says. "Oghren will need to translate it for us, I think."

Ah, yes. The dwarf who had insisted on traveling with us. The jilted husband of Branka, and the drunk, who refused to speak to anyone and complained that we weren't moving as quickly as we should be. As though darkspawn were something one should rush through. Absolon needed to be checked regularly to ensure that he was not ingesting their blood, and a poorly-timed splash into the eyes or mouth of one of my companions could be the beginning of the end for him or her. But all that mattered was his wife, who had taken their entire clan into these Maker-forsaken tunnels and abandoned her people. Had my spouse treated me so abysmally, I'd be the _last_ person in the city to mount a rescue attempt. I suspect that the dwarven ale that he has such an affinity for may have rotted his brain.

We return to the camp we set up upon arriving at the thaig, and I spend a few precious minutes before dinner collapsed inside of my tent.

"Is she all right?" I hear Zevran ask Alistair, and am pleased to hear him given a civil reply. They're getting along much better after a few battles together; Zevran has generally proven that he's not around to speed along our demise. Alistair by no means trusts the elf, but he doesn't trust Morrigan, either, so this is likely as much as I can hope for.

"Yeah, just a bit shaken up. We ran into a nest of spiders."

"Then I am glad I remained at camp today. I _hate_ spiders."

At dinner, Oghren reveals that the journal was indeed Branka's, and that we must travel even farther into the Deep Roads in search of her. This puts Morrigan in one of her moods, which causes her to resort to her new favorite pastime of tormenting Leliana. I'm forced to intervene, and in the end our watch shifts are rearranged again. The bard and I take first watch, and Alistair grudgingly agrees to take the second shift with Sten.

"But what about Zevran?" he asks me, and I take a sufficiently large bite of cured meat to prevent myself from being able to answer. Father used to do this at the dinner table when Mother wished to discuss my clothing allowance for upcoming salons, and it always seemed to serve him well.

"Only an idiot would leave the safety of a group of armed warriors in such a place," frowns the elf, and Alistair relents.

...Father never seemed to have difficulty _chewing_ , however. Perhaps this was a tactic better saved for foods that did not have the consistency of leather. I cough as soon as I'm able and reach for my waterskin.

Alistair grins. "And to think we have another week of cured meat and fruit ahead of us, at least."

"Do you wish to try eating anything we find in these tunnels?" I ask, and am not surprised when he shakes his head.

"No, but...it can't all be bad, can it? What has your mabari been eating?"

I wince. "I have been trying not to wonder." Absolon growls at me, and I shake my head. "Well, do you want to eat all the things _I_ think are dinner?"

He cocks his head and whines.

" _Normally,_ I mean. Though I think that no amount of time down here would convince you to eat broccoli." I hand him the last scrap of my dinner and collapse backward. The view changes less than I would have wished; all this stone is beginning to make my eyes hurt.

"But I bet you can tell what's got darkspawn corruption and what doesn't, can't you, Abbie?" Alistair insists. "I think I might be able to, but you've got the better nose."

I close my eyes and speak in the patient voice of my former tutor. "Stop calling my dog 'Abbie.'"

"No. Now answer my question, pup."

Absolon gives an affirmative bark, and I shake my head. "If you get sick, I am not caring for you."

"Cold heart," he retorts. "I bet Wynne would, wouldn't you, Wynne?"

"That would depend entirely upon what putrid thing you were silly enough to eat," she replies, glancing up from her book. Ah. She must still be upset about finding his socks in her bedroll.

He points to his left, where the remains of the deepstalker nests we cleared to win this camp lurk in the dark. "Omelet."

Morrigan's interest is piqued. "Weeks on the road, and the idiot finally has an idea worth considering! But how do you plan to manage eggs, if rabbit on a stick has proven beyond you?"

"Gently," he grunts, rising to his feet. "C'mon, Abs, let's see if our little friends there left us any eggs worth eating."

I rise up to my elbows and toss a small rock at his back. "What is so difficult to pronounce about Absolon?"

"It has more syllables, and annoys you less," he calls over his shoulder. I shake my head at Leliana, who is giggling quietly next to Sten. The qunari sighs and rises to his feet, moving to tower before me.

I move into a sitting position, which makes me feel _more_ , not less, awkward about our height difference.

"You. Spar with me."

I allow myself a faint smile. Alistair had staunchly refused to practice with him once we entered the Deep Roads, insisting that between that and sleeping on rock, he would never be able to move. Sten had attempted a match with Zevran two nights ago, but the elf's near-constant commentary on the size of his arm muscles had left him unwilling to ask again. And so, the sober male members of the party tapped out, he turns to _me_. I wonder if that's a compliment.

"Are you that bored?" I ask, and my smile widens when he crosses his arms.

"...Yes."

"As you like." I rise to my feet beside him and reach for my knives, which Zevran has been inspecting from a distance.

"I would like a chance to spar you, as well," he smiles. "If you have the time after."

" _No_ ," says Alistair, returning from the gloom with Absolon and several eggs.

"Such a shame," Zevran mutters, and relaxes back into the wolf pelt he has been resting on.

Sten and I finally yield when both of us are too breathless to continue, though there is no clear victor to the match; our styles prove too different for an easy fight. By the time my watch shift is over my shoulder is shrieking from the abuse he put it through, but I console myself that I've just held my own against someone more than twice my size. I have the worst feeling that it was luck and his tendency to underestimate women that was the main cause, but I'm insistent on savoring the victory while I can. I sleep soundly, nightmares notwithstanding, and wake only moderately sore.

Alistair and Leliana have prepared a breakfast of deepstalker omelet, and we all give in and eat before breaking camp. A month ago, I would have refused such a meal on principle, but even without salt and onion I find myself enjoying the flavor. Sten spends the day observing me carefully in battle, learning my technique and weaknesses, and I resign myself to a beating later. We don't have the chance to spar for the next several days, however: the area we've entered is positively flooded by darkspawn, and it's all we can do to stay alive and healthy. Progress is slow, and sleep furtive, and the further we travel, the worse my nightmares become.

"We're getting close to the archdemon," Alistair mutters as we sit watch. "I can feel it."

"Is that what that is?" I grumble. "I assumed that I had too much supper."

He snorts. "Right, the way you're making us eat? That's likely."

"We have no idea how long we will be down here. I am being wary."

"No, you're being _cruel_." But he smiles all the same, and so I don't hit him.

But glib words fail us both when we actually encounter the archdemon and its horde of darkspawn. They're marching below us in the cavern, and the dragon is flying above them, bellowing orders, and I'm on the ground, curled into a ball and clutching my head because Maker's breath, I can hear it shrieking inside of my skull—

We don't dare risk moving for hours after they have begun their march for the surface, and camp in the dark in case of stragglers. My head aches, and I'm inundated by visions of Ostagar, and the cold knowledge in the pit of my stomach of what an impossible thing I have decided to do. At this rate we will still be trapped below ground, dealing with the dwarves, while Ferelden is sacked by darkspawn. Alistair refuses to let me take watch, and he and Leliana send me off to bed when I have difficulty stomaching dinner.

I have nightmares of everyone dying and me being trapped in the dark, cold and starving. _Normal_ nightmares; I wake frustrated that this fact comes as a relief and stumble toward Alistair and Leliana's voices.

"Evie, is that you?" asks the bard, and Alistair makes a disappointed noise. "You should be sleeping."

I collapse beside him and rest my head on his shoulder. "I dreamed that I was alone. Here, alone."

Leliana can't fully understand this, because she doesn't know where Grey Wardens go to die, but I feel Alistair tense against me.

"Maker, I'm so sorry." He eases an arm around my shoulders, and I sigh into his chest.

"I would give anything for a decent night's rest," I mutter.

"Is there anything that we can do?" Leliana asks.

"Other than kill the archdemon?" Alistair mutters. "Get out of these blasted caves. Evie, here, lie down." He shifts beside me in the dark, and I feel his hands wrapping about my shoulders and pushing me gently.

"What are you doing?"

"Lie down on my legs," he orders, and I allow myself to be shoved over onto the pelt they were sitting on. I rest my cheek against his calves and giggle as he covers me with his cloak.

"You expect me to sleep like this?" I close my eyes and relax despite my words of skepticism.

"Well, I guarantee you won't have nightmares about being alone. Monsters that smell like feet, maybe, but that's a step up, right?"

"It depends on which pair of socks you're wearing, I think," Leliana giggles, and I feel Alistair sigh.

"Maker, I am never going to live that down, am I? _One_ sock got in Wynne's things, and I said I was sorry!"

"Be quiet and let the poor girl sleep," she chides, and I laugh again as he trails off into indistinct grumbles. I'm just beginning to enjoy how much better I feel simply by being near someone when I feel his hand slide up my neck and into my hair. His fingers brush through it uncertainly, and I consider saying something, but Leliana is sitting nearby, and I have no wish to embarrass him in front of her. So I turn my head and smile against the palm of his hand in silent permission. His touch remains polite, and exceedingly comforting, and soon I 'm drifting again.

~*-*~

When I come to, a hand, heavy from sleep, is resting on my shoulder, and I hear gentle snoring from above me. Alistair is asleep, still cross-legged, back to a boulder, and head lolled awkwardly to one side. He's as likely to regret his choice of sleeping position as I'll be: my hip is complaining about the stone beneath it, but my face is warm from—how long was I asleep?

Morrigan is standing over us, arms crossed, bathed in the pale mist of light she and Wynne have been summoning since we entered the Deep Roads. "'Tis time you both rose."

"Oh, you're the last thing I want to see when I open my eyes in the morning," Alistair mumbles at her, and she stalks off as we both wake fully and stare at each other in dismay. "Maker, my _neck_ ," he hisses, rubbing at it gingerly.

"You should have made me move once your shift was over," I chide.

"Well, yes," he admits, "but you were sleeping, actually sleeping, and I didn't want to risk it."

Oh, this is excellent: I'm blushing. Now everyone shall think that we spent the night cuddling, and I'm embarrassed that we were caught. We walk back to the group reluctantly; everyone is packed, and someone has taken care of my bedroll for me.

"Leliana did not want to wake the two of you," Wynne smiles. "She was hoping that you might catch up on lost sleep with the archdemon gone."

"That appears to be what has happened," I reply, and accept the mug of tea that I'm offered.

Nothing else is said about it, and soon I'm feeling far less awkward. Hours later, we reach the former fortress of the Legion of the Dead, who are from what I can tell the dwarven version of the Grey Wardens, at least in the sense that they've dedicated their lives to fighting darkspawn. Their leader, Kardol, isn't surprised to see Wardens, though he appears to be surprised that we're so _young_ , which makes my stomach turn. Where we're standing, he tells us, is the front line; past the bridge they are guarding, there is nothing but darkspawn.

"And yet we push on," Morrigan mutters, and I ignore the way the dwarves shake their heads as we enter the ruin. Even still, they take advantage of the fact that we clear the bridge and cross after us.

Hardened soldiers, not afraid of profiting from the foolishness of others; no wonder they've done so well down here. I give Kardol a cheery goodbye wave, and we press on.

We do find a dwarf, deep in the ruin, but she isn't the one we're seeking, and as soon as I set eyes upon her I wish that I hadn't. Hespith: her eyes and cheeks are sunken, her skin grey, and she appears to be burning with fever. But my tainted blood tells me instantly that we're not in danger of infection; this is darkspawn corruption, and she is fighting it...though she is losing, as well. The mind behind those eyes is tormented, and insane, and mention of Branka sets her running. I take Absolon, Alistair, and Wynne after her, and order the others to guard our flank.

We follow her trail, and she mutters the tale of what happened from the shadows. It echoes around us in these blasted caverns, and soon we can't tell where it is coming from, but we listen, and as we do my stomach goes cold.

_Branka did this to her._ Her own lover gave her up to the darkspawn and let her become the husk fleeing from us. The woman she trusted let the men she led into the Deep Roads be captured and eaten, and the women be raped and... _turned_? I don't know what she means, and so I follow, hoping she'll stop so that I might ask.

Oh, Maker, as soon as we find her again, I wish that we had let her be. Because she leads us to another former dwarven woman, one who has been _turned_ , and I nearly lose my tea when the creature comes into view. She is enormous, a gelatinous monstrosity, incapable of movement, but she has myriad tentacles to compensate. And so we fight the Broodmother while something shuts down in our minds, because we know how she was created, we know what she used to be, and we know who let it happen.

"That's why they hate us, that's why they need us. That's why they take us, that's why they feed us." Hespith's voice echoes through the caverns once the poor beast falls, and I look up to see her standing on an outcropping above us.

She is gone again before I can ask for the chance to help her, though I know of no way that we might. And so we push on in silence, and by the time we've made camp I have come to a decision: if we find Branka, I'll kill her myself. Nothing is worth what she has done to her people. Nothing justifies her betrayal of Hespith.

"You are strangely quiet," Sten observes as I sip water while the others eat dinner. They're the only words that he has spoken for the entirety of the day, but I can't smile.

"My mind is rather occupied. The archdemon has taken a horde to the surface, and they might already be attacking my country," I mutter, "but we remain down here because of the dwarves and their near- sightedness. They are too busy squabbling over a throne to honor their word, and so innocents will suffer."

"I should think that you would be used to such idiocy by now," he replies, offering me a strip of what has been breakfast, lunch, and dinner for days. When I refuse, he shoves it into my hand by force. "Eat. You will be useless if you continue sulking."

I'm too drained to even bristle properly. "What do you mean, used to this?"

"If the humans had not done the same over the Fereldan throne, you would not be down here."

And many more people I cared for would still be living. I bite into the meat and taste nothing but salt. "I had not thought of it that way, but you are not wrong." Perhaps that is exactly why I've been less than patient with our subterranean neighbors and their machinations.

He shakes his head. "And still you insist that I am making no sense when I am appalled by your ways."

I glance at him sideways. "True. If you prefer, I can stop sparring with you, since women do not fight."

Sten scowls. "That is hardly my point." When I smile, he shakes his head again. "Regardless, we shall not practice tonight. You are in no state of mind, and it is not safe here."

Alistair attempts to prevent me from taking a watch shift, but I insist on sitting with him, as is usual when Morrigan hasn't upset Leliana. The mages extinguish their lights before sleep, and our camp is plunged into darkness just in case we're not alone. We sit together in silence in the gloom and listen to our companions' breathing become slow and easy. The sound soothes me, and I lean against Alistair's shoulder with a heavy sigh. I need comfort, and badly.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong, now?"

"I want you to promise me something."

He throws his arm around my shoulders. "Let me hear it, first. You're too crafty for me to just agree to something like that, you know."

"When we are down here, near the end, make sure I die first. I would rather not be... _turned_." My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it.

"Maker," he breathes, and turns to give me a full hug. "You can't be turned, Evie. You're a Warden."

"Do you know that for sure?"

"Well, no." His fingers find my hair again. "But look—when we're Joined, the blood makes us immune to corruption, right? What's happening to Hespith is corruption. It can't happen to you."

"What if you are wrong?"

"Most of the time I am, but.... Think about it this way: would Duncan have recruited a female Warden if there was a chance that she could create _more_ darkspawn?" When I giggle into his chest, he continues: "Would the Wardens recruit females at all? We may not have known about... turning, but older Wardens do, I'm sure. How could they not, after four Blights?"

"I still feel terrible for her. And I keep thinking about how many times this must have happened, and it makes me sick to my stomach. All those poor women. At least when I come down here, at the end, I will _die_. Not be—I need to avenge them. And Hespith. If I do not, I shall never sleep again."

Alistair makes a sad noise and pulls me closer. "Your list is getting long, you know."

"So help me. You told me that all I had to do was tell you what I needed."

"Yes, but you _never do_." The tone of his voice makes me feel guilty. After a pause, he lowers his arms and clambers to his feet. "Look, stay here. I'll be right back."

"Try not to trip on anything," I warn.

"Oh, ha ha—blast!" I hear the sound of a boot clattering against rock, and then a sullen mutter: "Don't say a word."

Since laughter technically isn't words, I obey him. He returns a few minutes later with something behind his back. "Do you have that stone Wynne made? The one that glows if you hold it? I lost mine."

I nod, and then answer "yes" once I realize that he probably couln't see the action. He tells me to take it out, and so I produce it from my pocket and cup it in my hands. A soft violet light illuminates the two of us, pushing back the darkness just slightly. He returns to his spot beside me, then holds out something that takes me longer to recognize than it should have, even in the gloom; Maker's breath, have I been underground for so long that I have forgotten what _plants_ look like?

"Do you know what this is?"

"I know we have been down here for ages, but I still recognize a rose. Unless this is a trick question?" He coughs.

"No, no. It's a rose."

I reach out and brush its petals with my fingers. They still feel soft and velvety. "How has it not died? Where did you get it?"

"I had Wynne preserve it, actually, and she gave me this special cloth to wrap it in to keep it from being crushed in my pack. I picked it in Lothering."

I feel my eyes go wide; I'd forgotten about Lothering. It hadn't been that long ago, but so much has happened, both to me and during the journey, that it seems like ages. I, for one, feel like a different person entirely. Though perhaps this is a good turn of events, even if it's a little late to begin attempting to make my mother and father proud of me.

When I don't reply, he continues. "You know how good I am with explaining things, Evie, but I'm going to try. You remember how I was after we came to in the Wilds, and I heard about the Wardens, and...everything." His face darkens. "But you kept at me, and drew me out of my shell, and set your blasted dog on me until I was paying attention again. And I realized, then, that you had just...stepped in and taken control. You did what I should have done, and I was so ashamed."

This time I try to reply, and he shakes his head. "No. I'm not done. I let you do it, because I realized early on that you're a lot better at it than I am. People _listen_ to you, and they trust you, and they...well, they like you. You're rare, and you're special, and with each passing day, you remind me more and more of this rose, and how it made me feel when I first saw it."

I blink in confusion. "How did it make you feel?"

"It _hurt_ ," he frowns, and then carries on in a rush when he sees my face. "No, wait, listen. There I was, focusing on how dark and awful everything was, and I stumble across something so beautiful that it freezes me in my tracks. You're a lot like that. No matter how bad things get, you just keep going, and you're strong, and.... Watching you, being _with_ you, no matter where we are—it's beautiful, Evie."

"Thank you." Wynne's blasted light had better not be strong enough for him to see my eyes tearing.

Alistair offers me the rose, and I take it. Maker's breath, it still smells like an actual flower, even down here. Even after those weeks in his pack.

"I want you to have it, so you know. I can't always tell you how important it is to me that I met you, but maybe this will remind you that at least one of us isn't taking you for granted. And maybe it will remind you that you don't have to do all of this alone."

"I... " But no, my voice is quavering. How humiliating.

"So make your list, and add to it, and you'll stop the Blight, and get your lands back, and get Loghain what he deserves, and rebuild the order, and build enough statues to Hespith and the others to change the look of Ferelden forever, and I'll help if you let me. I hope that you'll let me help, anyway."

I give him a rather choked smile and crawl into his lap. He gasps in surprise, and then wraps his arms around me uncertainly. "Is this a yes, then? Are you going to let me help?"

"Maybe," I smile into his chest.

"Well, if not, I should probably tell you. Even if you don't let me help, I want to come along anyway. Because someone has to take care of you while you save the country, you know, and I don't think Sten has quite the, ah, bedside manner necessary for the job." When I giggle, he laughs happily.

"I'd like that. You're more than welcome to stay with me for as long as you want."

He meets my eyes, quite serious. Perhaps he thinks that I don't know what he is offering. "Are you sure about that?"

I give him my best Cousland smile and try not to feel smug when his breath hitches. "Positive. I think I am growing rather fond of you, Warden."

"Well, good," he swallows. "Remember that you said that when I spend the next two weeks acting awkward and blushing every time we make eye contact. Morrigan's going to think I've been hit on the head."

"Very well." I extinguish the light and remove myself from his arms with some reluctance. "Let us get back to standing watch, then, so we are not all eaten by darkspawn in the night. And this way you can do all of the blushing you like under cover of darkness."

"Thanks for that," he chuckles.

"So...you just called me beautiful," I crow after a pause, and grin when he sighs in exasperation.

"You know you're pretty. Stop that."

"Oh, only _pretty_ now?"

He feels for my shoulder, then shoves me once his fingers brush against my shirt. "I'll take all of it back if you keep this up, I'm warning you."

"Such a shame. I was about to tell you what a nice smile you have."

"I—wait, what?"

I seek his hand and link his fingers with mine. "Are you blushing yet?"

There is a grumpy silence. "...No."

"Of course not."


	10. Who Were We Then?

The wood beneath my foot gives way with a satisfying crack as I kick at the lock on the door. I doubt that my trainer expected me to apply that move for such a use when it was taught to me, but it proves quite effective. I can feel my three companions staring at my back in surprise.

 "What? I knocked and said hello first. It was very rude of him not to answer."

"How many doors have you kicked down in your day, my Warden?" asks Zevran.

I smile over my shoulder at him. "Just the one."

"And glad I am to have been present for one of your firsts," he grins, falling into step behind me as I move through the threshold and into the house. His innuendos no longer make me instantly defensive; unlike most, he does not mean them. It's simply a habit of his, similar to my tendency to avoid contractions out of a fear of my words not sounding sufficiently serious. He still bothers Alistair, and Wynne, but they'd been left back at the chantry for this particular mission. Leliana and Sten follow after him, and soon all four of us are staring down at a very short and angry dwarf, sandwiched between two surprised bodyguards with poor taste in tattoos.

"Hello, ser Dwyn." I pair my Cousland smile with crossed arms, and am pleased by his reaction.

"Mind telling me why you just ruined my door?" he snarls.

"I hear you have a qunari greatsword," I reply.

"You broke in to ask me about a blade? Why?"

"Because _it's mine._ " Dwyn glances behind me to where Sten is looming, covered from head to toe in the gorgeous armor Kardol gave us before we finally left Orzammar. A dwarf, naturally, would recognize the insignia of the Legion of the Dead, and—yes, there, he is blanching.

"Mind if we have it back?" I ask sweetly. "He is rather attached to it, you see."

"What about my door? I'm not going to give him a sword for destroying my property!"

My smile doesn't fade; visitors used to hate it when Mother spoke to them as I am now, though normally they were debating politics and under no real risk of a beating. "I was the one who broke it down. If you would rather see what my friend here can do to your lovely home, by all means, continue stalling."

"Fine." The dwarf hands me a key.

"Thank you." I pass it off to Zevran, who excuses himself and walks to a nearby chest. Leliana is standing pointedly in front of Sten, ensuring that no actual harm is done unless our dwarven friend is foolish enough to initiate violence.

"Now take the blasted blade and go," Dwyn growls, and I shake my head at him.

"No, I think you shall come with me."

The thugs on either side of him bristle as Dwyn practically shouts, "Why? What's out there for me?"

"A village that needs all the fighters it can find."

"If they knew what was good for them, they'd lock their doors, just like I'd done before you came along and stirred up my afternoon."

I allow my smile to fade at last. "Let me be blunt, then. You may either fight with the militia and risk death tonight, or continue whining and die now."

Dywn is an intelligent coward, which is exactly what I was hoping for. He takes his henchmen and reports to the village square, standing angrily next to the other two men I've recruited today. The bellows at the smithy is working again, judging by the smell, which means the repairs are underway. I have an entire afternoon to myself before tonight's battle, then.

Zevran, Sten, Leliana and I return to the chantry to reunite with the others. In mere hours, we've managed to change morale in the village sufficiently so that the terrified women and children inside the building are no longer crying. In fact, the only two people not smiling hopefully at us when we enter are Alistair and Bann Teagan. _Perfect_. Instead of weaving my way directly to them, I take the chance to return Sten's blade to him.

"Are you smiling?" I ask, head cocked, as he straps the greatsword to his back. The corners of his mouth are nearly parallel with his shoulders.

"Of course not," he replies.

"As you say," I reply, and spend a few moments inspecting the almost-pleasant face of the man before me. In truth, he looks more intimidating when he's happy. "What shall you do, now that you are whole again? As I understand it, you could return to your people if you wished."

He nods. "Though I might be able to... give a more satisfactory report if I remained to aid you." His eyes meet mine questioningly.

I smother my smile. "I would be honored if you stayed with us. In fact, I would welcome it."

"Very well," he nods. "Once the Blight is past, I will return home, but until then, I shall fight with you. Now, I must train. _Asala_ is lighter than the one I borrowed."

And now my wild creature is healing, and since I'm what facilitated the process, I've gained his loyalty. I'm feeling rather good about myself until the bard sidles up to me and directs my attention to Bann Teagan and Alistair, both standing opposite one another with crossed arms and annoyed eyebrows.

"Wynne says they were at each other's throats the entire time you were gone," Leliana sighs, taking me briefly by the arm and encouraging me to walk toward them.

"Maker's breath," I groan. "Thank you for the warning, Lel."

She rubs my shoulder consolingly before stepping aside, but this is simply another moment in an already terrible day. Alistair and I had already fought once before reaching Redcliffe; on the road, he took it upon himself to tell me how he knew Arl Eamon and Lady Isolde.

"I grew up at their castle, you see," he told me, staring determinedly at my boots. "Until I was ten. I was the bastard son of one of the serving girls there. My mother died giving birth to me, and so the arl took me in."

I considered this for a moment, but he answered me before I asked the question. "No, he wasn't my father. I know what you're thinking, but he wasn't."

"So why did he take you in?" Mother never would have allowed it, even though she would have believed Father when he told her that the child wasn't his. Such situations simply led to too much gossip. In fact, it was a wonder I hadn't yet heard any of this myself considering my family's closeness with the Guerrins.

"Well, my father... " Alistair sighed. "My father was King Maric. Cailan was my half-brother. It's why he sent me along with you to the tower when we were at Ostagar. Of the Wardens, he knew you and me the best. Which isn't saying much in my case, but. He knew who I was."

I stared at him for a few moments, utterly dumbfounded. "Why hide this from me? You knew who _I_ was." I couldn't keep the hurt out of my voice.

"How was I supposed to tell you? 'Good morning, my father was the king, nice weather for traveling, isn't it'?"

When he reached for my shoulder, I pulled it away sharply. "No, but it could have come up during many of our conversations. You have been avoiding it!"

"Can you _blame_ me?" he retorted. "Every noble who has found out has treated me like dirt. Your kind is the last I'm in the habit of sharing this with!"

I allowed my arms to cross defensively. " _My_ kind?"

"Yes, your kind. The ones who care about blood, and power, and rank. The ones who made my life at the chantry miserable. I didn't want to tell you for the same reasons you didn't want to tell Morrigan, or Sten, exactly who _your_ parents were!"

"I—" Well, that took the fight right out. "I... see. No, I do," I added when he raised an eyebrow at me. "I am sorry I yelled, I just... it feels like you believed that I could not be trusted."

"Come here," he sighed, and I stepped in for a hug. He rested his chin on the top of my head and squeezed me until I was smiling and trying to pull away. "I knew that you wouldn't care. I did. I was just afraid to tell you anyway, because I don't want how you treat me to change."

"Oh?" I gave him a wicked grin. "Not in the slightest?"

Alistair's cheeks flushed scarlet, and he let go of me at last. Three weeks since he gave me the rose in the Deep Roads, and his reactions to my flirtations have yet to cease amusing me. "Stop it. Unless you're going to go back to yelling at me about this."

I shook my head and linked my fingers in his. "No. Thank you for telling me, my prince."

He scowled. " _No_. None of that. I forbid it."

"You cannot give me orders if you are _not_ my prince. Teyrna outranks bastard Grey Warden."

"I...blast, I knew I was going to regret this," he muttered, turning away and resuming walking toward where we had left the rest of our companions.

"Majesty, please wait for me," I called, falling into step beside him.

"All right, then. Let's go, pup." When I stopped cold and scowled, it was his turn to grin at me. I crossed my arms.

"No," I said flatly.

"Oh, yes. I think so."

"...Well played, Warden."

"Thought you'd come around."

By the time we reached Redcliffe, both of us had tolerably overcome our mutual shock at the conversation. But when we entered the chantry to speak with the survivors of the recent attacks on the village, Bann Teagan ruined Alistair's mood.

The set of the bann's shoulders, the tone of his voice, and the way his hands moved when he spoke to our escort pulled me back into my old habits, and I felt an old, false smile overtaking my face as we were announced by the gate guard. My former world settled back onto my shoulders, and I saw a similar change occurring with Leliana. Alistair and Morrigan, on the other hand, seemed to fold down upon themselves and fade into the background. Likely for the best; a former Templar and an apostate mage were not ideal people to bring into the middle of a chantry.

The bann inspected us as we approached, and I was pleased that Alistair and Sten flanked me for added effect. We were getting better at entrances.

"You seem oddly familiar," he said to me, brushing a ridiculous braid behind his ear. I wondered who had told him that was acceptable; had his mother still been alive, she would have cut it in his sleep.

I removed my helmet and held it under one arm. "Have you gotten even taller, Teagan? The last time I saw you I was four years younger, in a burgundy gown, and stabbing you with a table knife."

His eyes widened. "Evie Cousland! Maker's mercy, I thought that you were dead!" He surged forward and gave me a tight hug, which I returned happily while hiding my surprise at how _clean_ he smelled. I'd grown used to the musk of my unwashed male companions, and was suddenly self-conscious; when was the last time I'd bathed? No matter; with any luck, all he smelled was leather.

"Not dead," I smiled as I stepped away from him. "Though it has not been easy, I assure you. I am a Grey Warden now."

"I am not surprised," he laughed. "Not the way you have always fought." Pain flickered behind his eyes as he continued, "I hope it is not rude of me to ask this, but if you yet live, then is your family...?"

I shook my head. "I am sorry, Teagan. My brother is dead along with my parents."

"This is awful news," he sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose, "but I am sad to say that there are more pressing matters, as I am sure you have noticed. Will you introduce me to your traveling companions?"

Alistair stepped forward and rested his left hand on my back. Politely possessive. "We know each other too, Bann Teagan, though the lack of mud on my face may make it difficult for you to remember me."

"Alistair? Alive as well?" Teagan's smile was wide. "This day has been unusually kind to me."

I sent the others off to rest in the chantry while Teagan, Alistair and I discussed what had happened to Redcliffe. The castle had been out of contact for days, and each night the village was attacked by the dead, which could be seen pouring out of the castle. The bann had come to Redcliffe to be with his brother, Arl Eamon, during his illness, and now found himself in charge of a terrified village and what remained of the arl's knights.

"Evie, knowing your clan, you have only gotten better at leading and fighting since I was last a visitor to your castle. I beg of you, help me save the village."

"Of course, Teagan. Just tell me what to do." Sten and Morrigan wouldn't be pleased at another "delay," but there was no one else to help these people, we needed the arl, or at least to know if he still lived...and I wasn't going to let a village fall simply because its attackers were not _darkspawn_. When I said as much to the bann, he spent several minutes explaining to me just how rare of a woman I was. "The Maker Himself has sent you to me today," he concluded as I excused myself to discuss matters with my companions.

"Sten, Zevran, and Leliana shall come with me," I told them afterward. "The rest of you remain here."

The qunari frowned. "I have no wish to help."

"Yes, you do. Your sword is here."

"Impossible," he scoffed. "How could you know that?"

"I excel at obtaining information." _One only needs to know_ how _to ask_ , as Father often told me. Shady merchants are always cowards, which had made the tracking of his blade to Redcliffe easy. And so Sten agreed to come along, and we helped the village before reuniting him with his blade. For once, he endured our coddling of the weak and terrified without complaint.

Meanwhile, apparently, Bann Teagan and Alistair had been doing their best posturing and had managed to horribly offend one another. As I approach them, they both smile falsely. I decide to pull Alistair away and discover what in the Maker's name has gone on while I was busy.

"Teagan, might I borrow my fellow Warden? We need to plan."

"If it is planning, then I should help," he insists. "I know the town better than either of you." I see Alistair's shoulder twitch. What have these two been _talking_ about?

I shake my head. "Alas, you are not a Grey Warden. Trade secrets, you see."

Teagan laughs pleasantly, though the emotion is not reflected in his eyes. "Very well, Evie. Come back before dusk, at least? I should like to see you before the battle begins."

"Of course," I smile, and then flee with Alistair to the one place where we might speak privately: the docks overlooking the lake and castle. Though it is a beautiful day, no one is outdoors who can't fight, and those that can are in the square. I sit at the edge of the walkway and let my feet dangle over the water.

"How did Teagan manage to upset you? He is one of the most mild-mannered people I know."

Alistair snorts. "And how exactly did you know him, Evie?"

"He was one of my brother's best friends growing up. He's...six years older than I am, I think, so he ignored me for most of our childhoods."

"Well, he seems quite interested now."

"Naturally," I frown. "He thought that I was dead."

"That's not what I meant. He was asking me if you were single, you know."

"Well," I laugh, "I am sure he settled down as soon as you told him that I was not. He is not the type to  _compete_." When he doesn't reply, I frown. "Or did you not tell him?"

"I told him that I wasn't sure."

"...Why would you do that?"

"Because I'm _not_ sure!" When I'm not entirely successful at hiding my hurt, he sits down heavily beside me. "Don't make that face at me, or I'll never be able to talk about this."

"Fine." I cross my arms. "Now talk."

"It's just...how much do you like me? I'm starting to worry that it's one-sided."

My eyes go wide. "How is that possible? I thought that I had made my interest clear."

"Well, sure, and then we meet Bann Teagan, the old 'friend.'"

I decide not to ignore that particular insinuation. "Just how many people do you think I have seduced?"

"Well, you never did tell me, did you? And you _hate_ hugging, I thought, but he was able to. What else was I supposed to think?"

I allow my fists to clench, but not to strike at him. "He is an old family friend. That gives him a slightly different rule set than most men. And if you must know," I add, "Duncan was the only man I have ever been with, no matter how familiar you thought Teagan was getting while he was being relieved that I was _still alive_."

"Okay, so maybe I'm overreacting, but can you blame me for being worried that you just don't want to hurt my feelings?"

"I have no compunctions about hurting someone's feelings," I retort.

"Yeah, but. Even if he was your only lover, you had Duncan in your bed before he even knew your name. Compared to that, you offering to _hold my hand_ seems less than convincing."

I bury my face in my hands and begin cursing for the second time in my life. "Andraste's flaming bush, Alistair! Is that what you want? Should I fuck you right here to prove a point? We have ample time before the sun sets."

His face flushes. "N-no."

"Then what _do_ you want? If you like, I can challenge the bann to a duel for your honor."

"Stop being snide," he snaps, and then continues on in a muted voice. "I just know that once this ends, if we go our separate ways, that I would miss you."

Our separation is unlikely, since we are currently the only two Wardens in Ferelden. But that is neither what he needs to hear nor his main point. "And I you," I reply. "So you must see why I am so annoyed."

He sighs and leans against me. "I'm an idiot."

"Normally, it is cute." I reach to slide my fingers through his hair, and his eyes close happily. "But if you ever just roll over like that again when you think another man is a threat, I will be very angry with you. I am a woman worth fighting for, am I not?"

"Yes, yes. Very much so. I'm a lucky man, and I know that."

"Then you should have taken every opportunity to make sure Teagan knew that as well, you sod."

Alistair chuckles. "And how was I supposed to do that?"

"Think of something for next time."

"Your desire is my command," he murmurs in my ear, and cuts off my laughter by placing a hand on my cheek and turning my face to his. I have enough time to inhale nervously before his lips are against mine and his fingers are pressed to the nape of my neck, warm, and strong, and insistent. His eyes close before mine do, and so I'm able to watch his uncertainty fade into relief, and then excitement, before I find myself unable to keep mine open. Maker's breath, he's warm. My hands slide up his arms and rest on his shoulders, encouraging him to continue. I want to be aggressive; I want to shove him over on the dock and make good on my earlier threat, or maybe simply force my tongue against his, but I can't abide the thought of hurting him. Uncertainties aside, it would be cruel to rush him as I had Duncan.

And so I wrap my arms around him happily and rest my head on his shoulder when the kiss breaks. This is enough for now.

"That," I breathe. "That would get the point across to him, I am certain."

"I don't think I'm okay with kissing you in the middle of a chantry," he admits sheepishly, brushing hair out of my eyes.

"If you wish, I can bring him out to the docks for _planning_."

"Now you're just being cruel, Evie." But he is laughing.

"Teagan spent several years of my childhood playing bandits with my brother and never letting me join in. My desire for revenge is perfectly appropriate."

We return to the others in much higher spirits. Leliana sneaks me a relieved smile as she sees Alistair's fingers link politely with mine while we sit and discuss the night's battle. Teagan notices the action, as well, and frowns at Alistair. Wonderful. Now he'll be under the impression that Alistair set him up for this moment out of cruelty. Thankfully, the sun begins setting soon after, and my companions leave for their post at the windmill before the two men have another chance to speak.

"Look after yourself, Evie," Teagan implores. "I hate to think that you are out there risking your life because I asked."

I shake my head and block latent images of the Deep Roads and the Broodmother from my mind. "I have been through worse, believe me. You shall see me at sunrise, with the rest of the villagers. Keep the children calm, in the meantime."

He laughs and eyes a blonde with pigtails nervously. "Not exactly what I do best."

"Then improve yourself," I smile. "Sten, Zevran, and Leliana shall remain in here in case the worst should happen. They will help you protect them." I excuse myself for battle after asking Absolon to take care of everyone inside and warn them if the battle outside sounds like it is going poorly. He whines about being left behind, but agrees regardless.

As soon as the first of the creatures swarms from the castle, my heart sinks. I've seen these sorts of monstrosities before at the Circle Tower, which means that there is a demon in control of the castle. A worried glance to Alistair reveals that he's had a similar thought, but then the battle begins and all I have time to do is keep the villagers alive. Wynne is with us, and I've told her to do nothing but heal the knights and other townsfolk while Alistair, Morrigan and I dispatch the creatures. It's exhausting work, but as time goes by and none of the villagers fall to the corpses streaming into the town, fear changes to hope, and our enemies are vanquished more rapidly.

The sun rises to astonishing news: due to Wynne's healing and Morrigan's myriad immobilization spells, not one of our brethren has been lost. Teagan hails me and my companions as heroes, and then asks us to meet him at the windmill for the next stage of the assault.

"I must enter the castle and seek out your arl," he tells the assembled townsfolk.

I frown and lean to speak into his ear. "Teagan, we desperately need rest. Wynne nearly killed herself to keep these people alive." Again. I refrain from commenting on the comparative ease of an evening spent relaxing in the chantry while we all fought on his behalf.

He looks to where both of my mages are sagging against other companions: Alistair is aiding Wynne in standing, and Morrigan has an arm around Leliana and appears half-asleep. Since the Deep Roads were cleared, they have been on much better terms; our apostate is much less caustic when in the sun.

The bann sighs in frustration. "Very well. Go recuperate, and we shall meet in the afternoon."

I don't wish to tell him that it is unlikely that the arl, Isolde, and their son have survived if a demon is loose in the castle. The Circle mages barely managed it, after all. But speaking such words without first checking for proof seems like asking for trouble. And the castle will need to be retaken, regardless, so I lead my companions back to camp and allow us all to collapse for a few hours in our tents.

By the time we all wake, stiff, but alert, we are due to meet Bann Teagan. Everyone except Wynne appears to be fully recuperated. When I tell her to remain behind, she frowns at me.

"You're walking into the middle of a battlefield without a healer. What do you intend to do?"

"Not die, which we have managed without you in the past. You are in no condition for this, Wynne."

She sighs and sinks back into her tent. "Blast these old bones of mine."

I pull the canvas shut and walk over to Alistair. "Would you stay with her?" I ask quietly.

He shakes his head. "No. No! The arl is in there, and I want to help!"

That's exactly what I feared that he would say. I'm genuinely worried that his desire to save the arl will cause him to do something rash should I take him with me, but I know better than to say that to him. "Sten can help me. I would rather leave her with you than a qunari and the dwarf."

"Then you're going to have to take Morrigan, too," he retorts. "If you leave her at camp with me right now, I might forget that I'm not a Templar anymore and shut her up once and for all."

I don't smile because I'm not certain that's an empty threat. "Then I shall bring Zevran and Morrigan, so that Leliana may keep you company."

"So I'm supposed to be okay with sending you off into a demon-infested castle with the three people in the party I trust the least?" He takes me by the shoulders and frowns down at me.

"If you want the arl's rescue to be undertaken in a timely fashion, yes. We cannot risk waiting any longer, but you know what might happen if Wynne overexerts herself."

We both turn and gaze at her tent in concern before he tilts my chin up for a brief kiss. I hope he makes a habit of this sort of familiarity. "Has it occurred to you that our little band here is comprised of various misfits and one dead mage being kept in her body by a spirit for reasons no one understands?"

I smile. "Good. Father always told me it was best for an army to have as many outcasts as possible."

"Huh," Alistair replies. "Uh, why?"

"Outcasts and misfits have no desire to go _home_." I glance pointedly at Oghren. Drunk though he was, crude though he was, he was also an excellent fighter, and had proven both useful and loyal on the occasions when I was required to seek his aid. Now if he would stop drinking all of our ale, remarking incessantly on my backside, and then collapsing and belching until dawn, I might be able to warm to him as a person.

"You know, you have a point. Most of the Grey Wardens before you were outcasts. Nothing to lose, no ties to anyone else. It makes sense that our situation here would be the same, I guess."

"Have more faith in them," I laugh, and when he scoffs, bat him on the ear. "Or at least in me!"

When I explain the plan to the others, Sten rises without complaint, Morrigan gives her usual grumbles, and Zevran crows, "Finally! Some action!"

Before we return to the town, I give Alistair a final kiss in sight of the rest of the party, throwing my arms about his neck and rising to my toes for added enthusiasm, and leave him looking rather red-faced.

"Goodbye, pup," he whispers vengefully in my ear. "Stay safe for me."

"As you command, my prince," I whisper back, then leave before he can think of another method of retaliation.

"So," Morrigan smiles when we're out of earshot of the camp. "The two of you have finally admitted it, have you? I won't have to hear him whining to Leliana about wishing you'd make the first move any longer?"

I don't quite manage to stifle a laugh. How very Alistair. "If you must know, _he_ made the first move. Twice."

"Oh, indeed? 'Tis a strange thought." We take several steps before she continues. "But you realize that this is a horrible mistake, do you not?"

"Leave them alone," Zevran frowns. "I am glad that my Wardens have found something to be happy about, and I something amusing to watch for a while. It is like two cubs learning to wrestle!"

"Thanks for that, Zev," I grimace. "Remember, I can always change my mind and kill you."

He shrugs. "And I you, but alas, we seem to be friends now, no? Such a strange world that we live in."

"Sten," Morrigan continues, raising her voice to drown out the elf, "surely you find this as reprehensible as I?"

He glances at me, and I steel myself. "It will not affect her ability to lead, or fight, and that is what matters."

"I see you have converted even the most judgmental of us!" she chuckles. "Sometimes I wish that I had your way with words, Evie."

"As do I," I reply.

"Oh, clever." But we are both smiling.

We arrive at the windmill laughing—those of us who _laugh_ , in any case—which does little for Teagan's sensibilities. He hasn't been dealing with horrors for as long as we have, and so can't understand that without levity, we would have gone insane long ago. I hope it's a lesson that he'll never have to learn.

"Bann Teagan," I smile. "We are rested and at your disposal. Tell us what must be done to retake the castle."

His mouth opens to speak, then falls wider in shock as he stares at the path behind us. I hear running feet and whirl, blades drawn, and then nearly drop them as I realize that what is approaching from the castle is not yet dead.


	11. Too Late to Say You're Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter contains (non-explicit) violence against a child.

When I was fourteen, Mother and I were invited to a salon hosted by Lady Isolde. I didn't want to go, since I already found such gatherings to be tedious, and Teagan and Cailan were visiting, which meant that I might be allowed to be an Orlesian to make the game even. However, I was informed that it was my duty to make the acquaintance of the Arl of Redcliffe's wife, "even if she _was_ foreign." My one consolation was that I would be allowed to bring Absolon, as mabari separated from their humans for more than a few hours developed destructive tendencies, and Mother had already replaced the dining room chairs twice since he adopted me.

We traveled to Redcliffe together, mother in our carriage, and I on the horse that I'd received for my birthday, with a happy Absolon trailing behind and barking at anything that moved along the road. Our retinue soon became frustrated with my tendency to bolt off the path at random intervals and go exploring. It was only after Mother threatened to give my horse to my brother that I agreed to stay with the guards. At night, I would climb into the carriage with Mother and sleep as we continued traveling.

By the time we arrived, my hair was bleached from the sun, and my skin was several shades darker than it had ever been. The Fereldan women with whom we weren't acquainted found this adorable, and knew without asking that I had an older brother, but Lady Isolde did little to hide her horror at my appearance. Consequently, I did little to hide my discomfort upon discovering that she was several months with child; as the youngest, I'd never been around a pregnant woman before. As a result, it was Lady Isolde, and not my brother's new Antivan wife, that was forced to deal with my suspicion at her having _another human_ lurking within her. Had my appearance and the knife I kept at my waist even after changing into my gown not already offended her sensibilities, I believe she might have handled my awkward stares with more grace. 

"But how do you ride a horse?" I asked after being forced to feel it kicking through her dress, and Isolde stared at me strangely.

"I do not ride."

Mother put her hand on my shoulder. "Evelyn, you must remember that the arlessa is Orlesian. They have different customs than we do, and you should respect that."

"Yes, Mother," I frowned, but the damage had been done. I have since learned not to provoke pregnant women, due in large part to living with one across the hall from me after my brother's marriage, but Lady Isolde was not forgiving on the best of days. Soon it was underhanded comments concerning her surprise that I could dance, and sew, and play, even though I looked "so boyish!"

"I look nothing like a boy," I retorted at last, quite at the end of my patience. "Are you blind? I have larger lips and breasts than even you, and I am half your age."

I don't look back on that particular comment with much pride: Isolde was hormonal, and promptly burst into tears, and I was given another lessen on _tact_ from five disgruntled Fereldan noblewomen and told that when I returned home, I wouldn't be allowed classes from my trainer for a week. What I _do_ find amusing is that subsequent encounters with Isolde have clearly shown that she has never forgiven me. At first it was more humorous; had she no memory of being fourteen? But as the years went on, I lost patience with her catty remarks and began responding in kind. That is how we discovered that I am more intelligent than Isolde as well as more useful.

And yet, _she_ has managed to survive the demon that destroyed the castle and nearly wiped out the village. Sometimes life has a twisted sense of humor.

She's running up the path toward us, hair askew, chest heaving. Still useless, but quite adept at attention-grabbing entrances: every man in my party is staring at her. I cross my arms and listen as she sobs to Teagan about the monster in the castle, and breathe a sigh of relief when we hear that the arl and their son yet live. She implores Teagan to return with her, and he immediately agrees. But I recognize that look in her eyes, and wonder why she is not telling the entire truth.

"What are you hiding, Isolde?" I sigh, and smile as she bristles.

"Who is this woman, Teagan?"

I recognize _that_ look, as well. "The armor cannot be that concealing, arlessa." Even still, I remove my helmet out of politeness.

"Evelyn!" Her eyes narrow. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Saving your village, if you must know. Some of the townspeople have survived, and I am sure they will appreciate your obvious concern."

Her eyes narrow. "My husband lies dying and my son is alone in the castle with an evil force! How dare you speak to me this way!"

Typical of an Orlesian noble to care only about herself. They see the peasantry as an extended network of servants, rather than people who rely on them for safety and stability. Thank the Maker that the bann arrived when he did. "Regardless, Isolde, you are hiding something, and I am not about to let Teagan leave with you."

She begins to wail, and the bann leads me away to confer privately.

"This is a _trap_. She is a worse liar than you are."

"I am aware, Evelyn," he growls, and I cross my arms again. "But my brother is in there, and I must go after him."

"No! What good are you to anyone dead?'

"What good will I be if my brother dies and I have not at least attempted to save him?" His eyes meet mine imploringly. "Please, Evie. What would you do if it were Fergus?"

Blast him for invoking my brother. "The arl will never forgive me if I let you run off and die."

"That is why you are coming after me." He slides his signet ring onto my finger.

"What's this?"

"The key to a passage in the windmill. It will lead to the dungeons, and you can scout the castle from there. The arl's knights will wait at the front gate for you to let them in."

"Curse you, Teagan," I sigh. "If you die, I shall spit on your grave."

"My brother is the priority. Get him out. The rest of us are expendable, as you are well aware."

I shake my head at him and his melodrama. "Nonsense. You are all coming out alive." If the demon hadn't managed to kill Isolde, after all, then it''s likely the situation isn't nearly as dire as we had feared.

He frowns at me strangely, and I realize that he entirely misconstrued my meaning. "Evie, I wish you were here under better circumstances. You have become a fine woman, and I.... "

"Hush, Teagan." This is a nightmare. Now he'll think Alistair cruel, and I _coy_. "Go not die, and I shall see you inside the castle."

"Agreed, my lady."

No one has called me that in a very long time. It sounds strange to my ears, but I do my best to shake it off. Once all of this is over, I might never feel like a proper noblewoman again. I've never been more pleased at the relative remoteness of Highever.

Teagan follows Isolde back to the castle as I explain the situation to Sten, Morrigan, and Zevran. When we enter the castle, I'm not surprised to find a mage, and even less surprised when he admits to being both a blood mage and responsible for poisoning the arl. What I _am_ surprised to find is that he isn't the mage who summoned the demon. No, I learn. Connor is a mage, and Isolde, rather than telling her husband and turning him over to the Circle as is law, decided to hire an apostate mage to train him in secret so that he might _hide his powers_.

"Perhaps she should have found a mage who was more than an apprentice himself," mutters Morrigan, gazing at the jailed mage curiously.

"Loghain told me to come here," he whines. "He told me to poison the arl, and if I did he would make it possible for me to return to the Circle."

"You are an idiot for believing him capable of that," I frown.

"Please let me out. I want to help fix this!"

"An idiot who thinks that I am an idiot, as well. You are staying there, blood mage." Until I've seen Connor, I can't know for sure if he's telling the truth. Even if his story is true, the fact remains that he has poisoned the arl, and for that reason alone he should remain jailed until this whole mess is over.

But the instant I walk into the main hall and set eyes on the boy, my heart sinks. _Isolde, you idiot._ She's standing beside the abomination with slumped shoulders as Teagan does flips like a dog for its amusement. Knowing all the while what might happen to him, she brought him here anyway, and now he might die because she was too selfish to do the right thing.

And then the unexpected happens: for the briefest of moments, Connor resurfaces and flees, leaving us to chase after him in a corpse-infested castle. Isolde stops us, wailing that she didn't tell us because she believes there is still some way to save her son.

"How many more people are you going to let die, Isolde?" Teagan snaps, shaking his head as he recovers from the spell, and she turns on him.

"This is my son! All I did was what I thought was best for my son!"

"Yes, your son," I interject, "the mage. And because you did not follow procedure, you gave a blood mage the means to poison your husband while a demon possessed Connor and killed almost everyone who looks to you for protection." I begin counting her other infractions off on my fingers. "Then, instead of telling the truth, you deceived Bann Teagan and brought him here, knowing full well that he might die. Connor is an abomination, and there is only one way to handle abominations, and yet you stand there and insist that we bend the rules _again_ and hope that no one else dies as a result."

"We cannot just stand here and talk about killing my _son_! There has to be a way," she insists, and I hear Morrigan sigh behind me.

"It might be possible to kill the demon in the Fade to save the boy, but it requires supplies that we do not have and a willing mage to be sent after it."

Her eyes widen. "You! You could go and do this!"

"I did say 'willing,' did I not?" she frowns, crossing her arms. "'Tis not my problem. You brought this upon yourself, and you deserve no help in fixing the situation."

"Then go to the Circle!" she shrieks, turning to Teagan. "Please! One of them will help us, surely!"

"If we involve the Circle, you lose your son regardless," I reply as the bann shakes his head again.

"And while we are gone, the demon may take complete control and kill you, your husband, and the rest of the village." When she opens her mouth again, I continue on more forcefully. "Regardless, the mages are in no position to help anyone right now. Their numbers have been decimated and their tower almost taken by _demons_ , Isolde. Plural."

Isolde sinks to her knees. "Then tell me what you plan to do."

I look to Teagan, and wonder if the set of my jaw is as hard as his. "I shall think. My friends and I will continue to clear the castle in the meantime. There may be other survivors."

As we leave the main hall, Sten stops me with a heavy hand upon my shoulder. "What are you doing? There is no other option."

"I know," I sigh over my shoulder at him. "But if I had told her that, she would have done anything to stop us."

He nods. "I see. Then we shall seek the boy."

It doesn't take long to rid the first floor of the walking corpses, and along the way I stumble into the arl's study. I decide to sift through his papers; perhaps he has some journal that might have more information on her son's "tutor" in case Isolde still isn't being entirely honest. Sadly, he appears to be a man of brevity, and all I find are account books. I'm about to leave when a small amulet catches my eye, made of clay, and once shattered.

I take it into my hand. Alistair had told me a story about such a necklace, hadn't he? He'd broken it the day he was sent to the monastary by throwing it against a wall. The arl had pieced it back together. I think back to his dream in the Fade, and how desperately he wants a family to love him. Alistair would want to see it. Not only was it the one thing he'd ever had of his mother's, but it clearly shows that the arl cares for him. I pocket the necklace while my companions are distracted.

Sten and Morrigan help fell the monstrosities flooding the halls in relative silence, but Zevran seems intent upon having conversation with his battle.

"You know, Evie, it is a joy to watch you work."

While I'm not entirely sure that is a compliment that I wish to hear from an assassin, he's being genuine as he says it, and so I thank him.

"You are quick, and clean, and with a little help, could learn how to fell your enemies twice as fast as you do now."

I plunge my daggers into the shoulders of a corpse and kick it in the chest, sending it to the ground, unmoving. "Are you suggesting I learn to fight like you?"

"Naturally," he smiles. "You have the makings of an excellent assassin!" I shake my head.

"I am no assassin, Zev."

"But you are a killer. That is what Grey Wardens are meant for, no?"

He misses my flinch, thankfully. "Darkspawn are not people."

"And assassination techniques work on more than just unlucky nobles. Keep it in mind, my Warden."

I shake my head at him even as something in the back of my mind is telling me that I'm about to kill a little boy. But the alternatives are worse, and I'm not doing this for money, or for pleasure; I'm doing it because I _must_. And Duncan would have had me believe that a Grey Warden must be strong enough to do what must be done, even if it hurts. I assumed that he felt nothing when he killed Ser Jory, but as I climb the stairs to the second floor, I'm left wondering if that was unfair of me.

Connor is standing alone in a room in the family suite, surrounded by scattered toys. My companions and I approach carefully, but he doesn't attack. The demon is away, and the boy is out, and so I'm able to learn how he became possessed: he tried to cast a spell from the blood mage's grimoire to save his ailing father.

_Isolde, you idiot_ , I think again, and kneel before the boy. "I do not wish to hurt you, Connor..."

"But if you don't, I'll keep hurting people. Tell me, is the village—how are the people?"

 He would have been an excellent arl. This is terrible. But we provoke the demon into manifesting fully and do what must be done. The battle is long, and loud, and I'm sure that they can hear it from downstairs.

 I strike the killing blow on the demon, but that doesn't end it. Connor reappears before me, crumpled on the floor, weak and bloody and sobbing in pain.

 "Warden, do you wish me to...?" asks Zevran quietly, accurately reading my expression.

I shake my head and am about to put my knife to his throat when Isolde bursts into the room. She begs me not to end him, to keep looking for another way, and cradles Connor in her arms.

But the demon isn't vanquished; it begins to speak to her from Connor's mouth, and I watch her eyes grow vacant as she too is forced to accept that he is lost. "Hush, Connor," she sobs, reaching for my blade. "Close your eyes, and mother will make it stop hurting."

In the end, I don't have to kill a child. Instead, I flee the room, and allow Isolde to do it for me.

We return to Teagan, and Isolde joins us moments later, knife dripping blood. Cleaning it makes my chest hurt and my lungs feel tight. She asks me to help heal her husband, and of course I agree; I would have agreed to anything to assuage the guilt tearing me up from the inside. There was no other alternative, of that I am certain, and she was a fool for allowing this all to happen, but the fact remains that a boy lies dead on the floor above us.

The village mayor is called for as the knights begin transporting the cursed corpses to the hills for disposal. I agree to stay on for the funeral of those who perished while still human and send the others to camp. Our dead are piled into boats and set afire on the lake while the remaining villagers, the arlessa, and Bann Teagan watch and mourn. Connor is the last to be sent away from the docks, and as his vessel catches fire I feel the remaining strength drain from me. I sink to my knees and understand for the first time why my mother and father sent me away rather than allowing me to die beside them as I had wanted.

Bann Teagan helps me to my feet as the others file away. "Evie, bring your friends to the castle tonight. We have two rooms clean for the men and women, and all can have beds if they are willing to share, and you may have a bath and solitude in my room."

"Where will you be?"

"I shall stay with your men for the night. Please, I will not allow you to tell me no."

I manage a smile. "Very well, though I suggest not sleeping with the dwarf." After he laughs politely, I excuse myself to go pass the invitation to the others.

At least I'll be able to give Alistair the amulet, I muse as I walk alone up the path. There's one small bright spot to these events. I hold it in my hand as I near the campfire and encounter everyone eating lunch. Leliana sees me arrive and rises to prepare a plate for me, but before I can take my first bite Alistair comes marching from where he was sitting on a nearby rock.

"How could you?" he snarls. "You killed a little boy!"

My greeting dies on my lips, and I stare at him in shock. "I beg your pardon?"

"Don't give me that. You made Isolde kill her only son! The arl's only son!"

Hessarian's blade, hadn't he been raised in a chantry? Hadn't he seen what had happened at the Circle Tower? "Did the part where he was a mage possessed by a demon escape your notice? Tell me, Templar, how are such things normally handled?"

"You could have tried!" He points at me angrily, and I rise from where I was sitting. "There could have been something!"

The others do their best to sink into their bowls and plates as I raise my voice to match his own. "Should I have asked the blood mage for help? Perhaps _he_ could have saved the boy! Would you feel any better then?"

"Connor would still be alive," Alistair manages.

"So I am a monster, then, for saving the arl, arlessa, and Bann Teagan! I am cruel for being wary of turning to blood magic, or worried about leaving them unprotected for days to seek the aid of a Circle that might not be able to help!" My voice cracks, which makes me even more infuriated. "Do you think I enjoyed this decision? That I reveled in Isolde's pain? Do you think I wished my hand to be holding the knife?"

"No!" He runs his hands through his hair. "Of course not!"

I want to smack him, but my hand is full, and so I throw his mother's amulet at his face instead. "You were not there, Alistair. I did the best that I could!" I draw my blades with a frustrated growl and point one at Zevran. "You! Spar with me. The rest of you, pack up. We are sleeping at the castle tonight."

Zev rises to his feet without question and leads me into the woods. I manage to hold my own against him for all of ten minutes before my hands start shaking and the tears make it difficult to see. When I return to camp, my tent is razed and my bedroll tied, so I'm able to grab my things and walk toward town without meeting Alistair's eyes. Once we reach the main gates, I'm much calmer, though my hands are still shaking slightly.

Teagan's room is enormous, and it's lovely to have space to myself again, though I'm given very little solitude; minutes after I'm out of my armor and have asked for bath water to be brought in I hear a knock, and open the door to find Alistair. As he lets himself in, I collapse onto the bed and cross my arms.

"Have you come to yell at me again?"

He shakes his head and stands in the center of the room. "No."

"Then what?" I keep my voice cold.

"Wynne and Leliana have been at my throat since you stormed off into the woods," he manages, "and Zev won't let me in the guys' room until you tell him that it's okay. He says I made you cry while you were sparring with him."

Wynne, Leliana, and... Zevran? That's unexpected. "You did," I admit.

His face looks pained. "I shouldn't have second-guessed you like that. I shouldn't have yelled. I want to be the last person in the world to make you cry, you know."

My mouth twitches up at the corners. "You might want to get better at that, then." I beckon him over and allow him to sit beside me on the bed.

"I lash out when I'm upset." He holds the necklace in front of my face. "As you can see, it's been a problem my entire life." I'm not the sort of person who will be able to fault him the occasional emotional outburst, so force myself to meet his eyes. The amulet spins gently in the air between us before he speaks again. "Maker, Evie, how did you find this? I thought that it was gone forever."

I pull my knees toward my chest. "The arl had it. I think he repaired it for you."

Alistair shakes his head. "I owe that man so much. I wonder why he did it."

"Because he cares for you, you dolt."

He blinks. "B-but we haven't spoken since I was a teenager, and our last few conversations weren't exactly pleasant."

I shrug. "So? My mother and I were at each other's throats her entire life, and I still loved her."

"I hope you're right." He stares at the necklace for a few more minutes before lowering it over his head and tucking it under his shirt.

Another knock on the door sends Alistair bolting to his feet, and I laugh openly at him as several servants enter and fill the bath. I thank them as they close the door. "Alistair, are you blushing?"

"You'll laugh at me." When I agree, he glowers at me. "Blast it. Fine. This is the first time I've actually been alone in a room with a woman, if you must know."

"So I suppose you've never helped anyone bathe, either?" When he sputters, I laugh again. "I only want to relax. No dirty business."

"Oh. I don't know if I should feel disappointed or relieved."

I rise from the bed and pull my shirt over my head, dropping it to the floor at my feet. "I guess it depends on how this makes you feel."

"Ah. Lucky, and more than slightly scared, in all honesty," he laughs.

"Then turn around and let me get into the bath so you are not overwhelmed by too many new sights at once," I suggest.

"There's that not knowing whether I am disappointed or relieved again," he mutters, but turns around all the same.

The bathwater is the perfect temperature. I sink into the tub up to my neck before calling Alistair over.

"So what am I supposed to do?" he asks, crossing his arms and looking down at me with one eyebrow raised. "Ogle your eyes? Sneak glances at all that skin you've got cleverly hidden underwater?"

"Actually, I was hoping you might wash my hair," I grin.

"O-or that," he agrees, falling to his knees at the head of the tub. I dunk my head under the water and hand him the soap, which he applies to my scalp with fingers that feel only slightly nervous. As my eyes shut and I relax into the water, I feel him growing calmer as well. Soon his fingers are rubbing at my temples and running along my neck beneath my ears like they sometimes do when we are sitting watch. I'm just becoming sleepy when I feel him sculpting my hair into shapes.

"Is that strictly necessary?"

"My hair is too short for this," he says. "Let me have my fun!"

"Very well," I grumble, and patiently enjoy the heat of the water as he does his best to make my hair stand straight on end. Eventually I'm allowed to rinse it, and lean back against his arms feeling cleaner than I have in months.

"Lean your head forward," he suggests, and when I obey, slides his thumbs down my neck to my shoulders, rubbing away the tension the past few days have stored there. "Does that feel good?"

"Yes, and you are more than welcome to rub my shoulders, as well," I murmur, eyes closing again.

"Oooh, shoulders," he laughs, stretching out the syllables. " _Shoulders_." His hands slide along mine, and then he sighs. "Evie, you—wow, you have amazing shoulders. This is unreal."

"Careful, Alistair," I chuckle. "You sound a bit overwhelmed."

"Don't mind me. Just rubbing your shoulders, wondering what you look like in a gown."

"Should I put my clothes back on, then, to help the imagery?"

"Oh, I never said that," he grins, and leans over the edge of the tub to steal a kiss. I'm expecting more politeness, but he takes me by the shoulders and turns me for a better angle. I grab at the edge of the bath as he presses against me with enough force to lean me back slightly. The water ripples as I keep my balance, and beneath it I can hear heavy breathing. Within seconds I'm no longer feeling particularly relaxed, and when I whimper accidentally he moves to my neck, planting gentle kisses in a line from my ear to my collarbone and leaving my nerves in uproar.

Our eyes meet; his are as hazed as mine, and he doesn't protest when I throw my arms around his neck, soaking his shirt, and press against him insistently. I nip at his neck and ears until he gasps, then bring my lips to his to more fully enjoy the throaty pants that I have elicited. One arm wraps around my back while the other tangles into my hair, drawing me closer, and holding me immobile as our tongues meet for the first time.

I have half a mind to pull him into the bath with me, but no wish to flood the floor of the bedroom. His mouth returns to my neck, now biting and sucking, and my thoughts dim until I no longer find myself caring.

The carpet is saved by a knock at the door. Alistair and I freeze and turn as one, then giggle in relief when we recognize the voice on the other side as belonging to Zevran.

"Alistair? Wynne sent me to make sure that our Warden has not killed you."

"Only nearly," he manages before kissing me once on the cheek and rising to his feet. He dries his hands and face on a towel, then lets himself out into the hall with a last, reluctant look over his shoulder.

When he's gone, I sink back into the water with a sigh, experiencing for the first time an odd mixture of disappointment and relief.


	12. Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is AO.

I wake to the sound of a creaking chair and have a dagger out from under my pillow and in my hands before I'm even aware that I've moved. My eyes focus on the source of the sound, and I collapse back into the bed with a groan. And I had been under the impression that my own bedroom would offer more privacy than a _tent_.

"Teagan? What in the Maker's name are you doing in here?"

He looks up from his book sheepishly. "Sorry, Evie. I couldn't sleep, so sneaked in to retrieve my book. And then realized what it would look like if I were caught leaving your room at this hour."

"So instead you intended to, what, leave at dawn?" I remember that I have no clothes on and draw the blankets further toward my shoulders.

"No, the plan was to leave once the servants were in bed. Ten minutes from now, if I recall correctly."

"And so you would have been in my room while I was sleeping, without me knowing?" I raise an eyebrow. "Creepy."

"Well," he replies, not quite meeting my eyes, "I was not aware that you sleep naked. Otherwise I would have abandoned the book and gone for a walk with Absolon. He is enjoying the kennels, by the way."

I remind myself that it is likely only pure luck that has allowed me to sleep naked in my tent without discovery these past few weeks. Soon, bandits will attack at random, I'll fight them off naked...and Alistair shall die out of distraction. Perhaps I should buy a robe. "I have no clean clothes. The servants are washing them."

"You could have asked Isolde for a gown," he suggests, and I decide not to admit that the thought hadn't occurred to me. Clearly I've been living in a camp for too long.

"Imagine how well that would have gone," I laugh instead, and he's forced to agree.

"Ah, well. Nothing I haven't seen before, now is it? Do you remember the time you, your brother, and I all went swimming and your mother nearly killed you in rage?" He gives me a merry smile, and I snort.

"Yes, when I was eleven? I may have filled out since then."

"Forgive me, but I have been attempting not to notice. I am told that those sorts of advances would be unwelcome."

I nod and relax further into my pillows. Alistair must have spoken to him. "Indeed."

"Hmmm." Teagan rises and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, which is so broad that he's still a body- length away from me. "He is a lucky man, but I am left wondering how serious this is."

My smile fades and I rise to a sitting position again, wrapping the bedding around me tightly. "That is rather rude of you."

"Rude, or practical? Both of you are Wardens. Who shall care for Highever when you are needed to fight darkspawn?"

I frown. That's on my list of problems to solve. "I am not sure."

"My lands are not far from yours, you know. I would be able to protect your people rather than leaving Highever lordless when your other duties called you away."

"How dare you!" I snap, and turn my head away when his face grows angry.

"How dare I what? Be sensible? Wonder what would cause a Cousland to marry a bastard, even if he _is_ the son of the king? What would your parents think if they were still alive?"

Mother would be thrilled that more grandchildren were finally in her future, and Father would be pleased to have a son who loved swords and dogs as much as he. If I weren't naked, I would have sprung to hit him across the face by now. "Get out, Teagan."

"Listen to me, Evelyn!"

There is the soft hiss of steel sliding against leather, and then Zevran is behind Teagan, his knife pressed to the bann's throat. "I believe we both heard my Warden ask you to leave."

"Zev, that is hardly necessary," I begin, and then change my mind. "Show him out, would you?"

"Come back, my darling bedmate," the elf grins, "before more than just I wonder where you have gone to at this hour. Her other companions may not be nearly as understanding."

Teagan leaves without complaint, and I manage to fall back to sleep after an hour of fuming. Zevran checks on me in the morning, and I thank him for being suspicious enough to follow the bann when he left the boys' room.

The bann is wisely absent at breakfast. A few hours later, we quit Redcliffe entirely in an attempt to honor my promise to Isolde. Sten and Morrigan had scoffed, and even I was rather skeptical, when Isolde and Teagan had insisted the night before that the arl's only hope was for us to recover Andraste's ashes. A pinch of those, it was said, had amazing healing powers. Though I wondered how that tale came to be, as no one knew where her urn was located.

Thankfully, there are others who have been at the problem for far longer. Seeking Brother Genitivi, who has spent his life researching the urn, leads us to the temple where they are enshrined. The temple, a village full of cultists, and a High Dragon, but nothing surprises me anymore. Cultists die more easily than darkspawn or abominations, and the High Dragon falls to our arrows, slowly, as she attempts to eat Alistair alive. The only problem comes when the idiot spirit guarding the ashes decides that it would be excellent to masquerade as my father. I nearly behead the thing, convinced that it is another demon, before Alistair manages to coax my knives from my hands.

I didn't believe that what I had recovered were actually _sacred_ until I see the arl revive before my eyes. Magic and medicine had both failed, but his wife's faith in the Maker proved his saving grace. A bitter awakening; regaining life only to learn that his son has died. I don't know how honest Isolde is about what happened, but the blood mage is executed soon after.

And now one of the maids is lacing me into a gown so that I will look like a proper lady at the dinner being thrown in our honor. Champions of Redcliffe, we have been dubbed, though only Alistair and I have been told to dress well. Here, it appears that he's more noble than bastard. No wonder he has seemed on edge since our return from the mountains.

"This gown is _far_ too blue," I sigh, and brush at my hair while the poor maid checks the bottom hem.

"But 'tis the right length," she smiles, and I pretend to be relieved by this news. Honestly, I'd be much happier in my armor. There's no belt or sash for my knives, for one. I'd been forbidden to bring them, in any case. And the girdle is making it hard to breathe, though memory insists that this is normal.

Alistair lets himself into my room, and the maid turns to inspect his tunic. "You have the collar on wrong!" she chides. "Let me help."

"You're always looking out for me, Selene," he smiles ruefully, then catches sight of me and freezes.

"I know," I sigh. "Blue."

"Yes, that's _exactly_ what I was thinking. Selene, we need her out of this blue gown immediately." His lopsided smile triggers a blush. For the past month, it has always triggered a blush, and I'll never forgive him for it.

"I'm afraid not, sers. That's the best we can do on such short notice, and I've been told I'll be sacked if she leaves for dinner in her armor."

I frown. "That is rather rude of them."

The maid chuckles and excuses herself, shutting the door politely and leaving me and Alistair alone. Everyone is always politely averting their eyes from the kisses, and the hugs, and the relaxing against one another while Leliana plays a few songs before bed. No one has even commented that he has spent the past few days in my bedroll with me, though the fact that they all gain a full night's sleep and then wake to find us fully clothed in each other's arms likely has much to do with it. My patience, though sometimes painful, hasn't been in vain; in the month since he helped me bathe, he's grown far more comfortable around me.

And far more aggressive. His arms wrap around my waist as soon as the room is ours, and between his kisses and this blasted girdle, I'm soon breathless.

"Think we can barricade the door and skip this dinner completely? I hate my outfit."

"At least it is not _blue,_ " I sulk into his shoulder, and he laughs in my ear. Maker's mercy, laughs shouldn't have that effect on my nerves.

"It's a good color for you. Brings out those pretty eyes of yours." Another kiss, and then a sigh. "We need to get out of here before I undo all of Selene's good work getting you into that gown."

"I doubt you would be able to get me out of it, honestly," I grumble, and smooth my hands over my waist for the thirtieth time. I keep expecting to get shot by arrows; everything feels too exposed.

"Is that a challenge?" He grins. "Can I pretend that's a challenge?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Must it be pretend?"

Ah, there's the flush and the stutter. We laugh at each other before he places one last kiss on my cheek and pulls away. "Anyway, ah. I was sent here to collect you. We should probably get to the main hall."

We're the guests of honor, and so we enter last, arm in arm like friends or siblings. Everyone rises, and cheers, and we smile as gifts are presented, but once the dinner is to begin I'm forced to create a bit of a stir.

"Arl Eamon," I frown. "Why are Alistair and I not to be seated with our companions?"

"We wished the two of you at the high table, my lady." A quiet stare meant to remind me that I'm a noblewoman, and Alistair a nobleman, regardless of how he acts.

I shake my head. "Nonsense. They fought for you and your town just as Alistair and I did. Either combine the tables or excuse us to theirs. I have no wish to leave them during a meal in our honor."

"Evie," Alistair whispers. "What are you doing?"

"Making a scene." As though this wasn't obvious.

And so the dining hall is quickly rearranged to suit my tastes, and the high table seats a dwarf, an elf, and an apostate mage in ridiculous robes for the duration of the evening's festivities. Isolde's lips are thin, but Teagan is shaking his head in amusement, and Eamon is too familiar with my family to be surprised. "Your father would have done the same, Evelyn," he chuckles. "Your loyalty to your fellow soldiers is heartening to see."

"You're a spoiled brat, you know that?" Alistair teases me once we're seated between our companions and our hosts.

"I for one am grateful," smiles Zevran. "This wine is much better than what the others are being served."

My companions return the favor by being on their best behavior for the evening; Oghren remains relatively sober and says not one impolite word to the other women at the table, Zevran mentions neither assassination nor his prowess in the bedroom, and Morrigan and Sten do not snarl. In fact, they seem to be enjoying the food, and when a tray of pastries are passed around at the end, my qunari's eyes widen for the briefest of moments. So he has a sweet tooth; I'll need to remember that.

Leliana soon has Teagan, the arl, and arlessa captivated with some of her better Orlesian tales, and afterward is asked to play in duet with their castle's minstrel.

"Of course," she smiles. "As long as everyone promises to dance. I love watching, but we have not had the chance at camp, you see."

Sten and Morrigan cross their arms, but everyone else in the hall stands obligingly. I see Zevran raise an eyebrow at me, but Alistair takes me by the arm and leads me to the center of the room. First choice taken, Zevran turns to Wynne and bows politely, and to my surprise she allows him to lead her toward us. May wonders never cease. Afterward, I instantly begin thinking like a noblewoman again and realize that no one will be scandalized by an elf dancing with a mage, though a first dance between him and myself would likely stop the music. How quickly I'm forgetting protocol.

"So, _you_ dance?" I soften the incredulity behind the question with a smile.

"A little," Alistair admits. "And Lel spent all day making me practice with her, so I don't think I'll embarrass us too badly."

"That little... " I mutter. "She _planned_ this!"

Alistair slides a hand to my waist and guides us as the music begins. "You know what? I'm glad she did."

I'm allowed two dances with him before the arl cuts in and Alistair steals Wynne from Zevran. Teagan takes me from the arl one song later, much to my chagrin. Rather than apologizing for breaking into my room and harassing me, he makes it clear that he'd happily marry me the instant I change my mind. His brother losing his only son and heir must have him in a panic over ensuring that his bloodline is continued. I hope that once another eligible woman of breeding age is in proximity his interest will fade, and tell him as much as the song ends.

An extra glass is necessary after my conversation with the bann. After the wine has soothed my nerves, I take Zevran from the table he has claimed as a resting place.

"Dancing with an elf, my lady?" he smiles up at me, and we both pointedly ignore the hush. "How shameful."

I flick my eyes to my left, to where Teagan has coaxed Morrigan onto the floor. "I am hardly the only one stooping below my station."

"Indeed," the elf laughs. "I thought that she had better taste!"

"He is a good leader, and she is fascinated with these things, as you are well aware." The four glasses of wine she had with dinner have likely played a role, as well.

"Understandable. I suppose if she must dance with one of you humans, Teagan is not so bad."

"Little do they know that you are the best dancer here." For the first time in the evening, I'm finding myself needing to pay attention to keep up with him. Mother would have loved dancing with him; none of the Cousland males ever had a decent sense of rhythm, as my brother's wife would lament at nearly every banquet before giving in and standing up with me.

"You are not so bad yourself," he retorts. "Perhaps we should put them all to shame?" He leads me into a turn, and I spend the next song focusing on my footwork to prevent myself from falling behind or tripping us up.

"You' re out of breath, my Warden," he smiles smugly, leading me toward my chair. "Another first, perhaps?"

"Nonsense. It is impossible to breathe in this gown."

"Regardless, feel free to try." Maker, but I hate that smile of his sometimes. "The effort is impressive."

"Zev," I frown, and he laughs and leaves to take Wynne back from Alistair.

My fellow Warden sinks into the chair beside me with a small smile a few minutes later. "You look amazing in that gown," he admits.

"Good. I seem to remember you wishing to see me in one."

He meets my eyes. "True, but now that you are, all I want is to see you out of it."

I'm blushing again. How infuriating. "I... might be able to arrange that."

His breath hitches. "Are you sure? I'm not—we're not rushing things, are we?"

_Rushing_? Hardly. "Only if you think we are."

"Well, I. No. I mean maybe, but I've never done this before, and I want it to be with you, and if we wait for me to ask it may never happen, and that would be just terrible, right? Oh, Maker, I'm babbling." He giggles and takes me by the hands. "Ignore me. Just being nervous."

"Is it the thought of all that skin?" I tease. "Maybe we should leave the gown on after all."

"You're going to drive me mad, Evie. Stop using words that make it hard to think. Words like _skin_."

Oghren has been asked to share some dwarven jigs, which Leliana knows how to play, and so nearly everyone has their attention on them as we leave. I almost want to stay and watch, as he's teaching several enthusiastic children how to perform the steps with him, but Alistair's hand on my waist is both insistent and convincing. He and I are able to flee the main hall with ease. Sten sees us leaving and follows, but turns toward the room he is sharing with the others.

"I cannot abide loud music," he mutters.

"But you enjoyed the food, did you not?"

"Yes," he replies, and then closes the door behind him.

Alistair and I make it upstairs without encountering any servants and are soon safely shut in my room. He gives me a rather lopsided smile and rests his hands on my shoulders. "So.... "

I tilt my head and plant a kiss on his left hand. "I shall make you a deal. If you can get me out of this dress, you may do whatever you like with me."

"Not sure that's a good idea," he frowns. "Of the two of us, I'm the one with only very vague ideas of what I can do with you once that dress is off."

I giggle. "Not up for the challenge?"

His eyes narrow, and he kisses me roughly, clearly intent on silencing me. I allow him to take me by the wrists and hold me still as his mouth runs along my ears, down my throat, and follows the accursedly low neckline of my dress. It could have at least had a collar to make things slightly more difficult for him. He only relents when I gasp, and when my eyes open, I find him smiling at me.

"I'm never going to get tired of that sound. Or of making you make it." His fingers slide into my hair and pull me against him, and I laugh into his chest.

"That is good to hear."

His hands slide down my shoulders and arms and toward my back. "Now, how do we unpackage you?" He finds a button and fumbles at it.

"Slowly," I observe, and he bites my shoulder in retaliation.

"Oh, blast this thing. Turn around, Evie."

I oblige, and now that my back is in plain view, he makes short work of the dress. As it falls loose around my shoulders and begins sliding to the floor, he laughs triumphantly. "I win!"

"And thus the easy part ends." I grin, step the rest of the way out of it, and turn to face him.

"Will I get hit if I joke about the hard part happening?" When I answer him with a punch to the shoulder, he winces. "Ow, sorry. Sorry!" His eyes sweep over me, and our laughter fades again. "So, there you are, in your underwear. Imagine that."

I give him a Cousland smile and walk toward the bed, making sure he has plenty of time to look. The last thing he needs is to feel uncomfortable during all of this. He follows me obediently, and I remove his shirt before we both sit on the bed.

"Wha-what should I do now?"

I stretch out on my back and pull him beside me. "Well, you know those noises you love hearing me make? I am certain you will have a much easier time of it with all this extra skin at your fingertips."

He swallows. "The way you say that word. _Skin_." But his hand traces my check, fingers skipping along my neck, before with a deep breath he lets his hand slide across my breastband, feeling the curve of my chest, and then splaying across my stomach.

"My turn," I smile, and mirror the motion on him. My fingers brush against warmth and solid muscle as I move my hand from his cheek to his stomach. I'm itching to push him over and lick the trail I just traced, but I need to be patient.

Alistair swallows again, but his eyes are hazing over. I smile encouragingly as he straddles me on the bed, taking my wrists in his hands and giving me several long, slow kisses. I can feel his pulse racing against my chest. His tongue runs against my neck, and I don't bother attempting to stifle my groan. When my back arches toward him, I allow that as well, and within moments he's exploring me with no trace of nervousness. He releases my wrists to move farther down the bed, bringing my chest and stomach in range of his mouth, and I encourage him with a hand to his hair, gently guiding him where I crave his tongue most.

This breastband is a hindrance; surely he agrees—yes, there, he's raising me up and attempting to unfasten it. I make things difficult for him, begging for kisses and clawing gently at his chest while he tries desperately to remain coordinated, but he eventually manages to remove it. I arch my back again, pointedly showing off my naked chest, and he grins at me.

"I probably shouldn't tell you how long I've wanted to see you naked, should I? It wouldn't make me look very good." His hand brushes up my stomach, and then he massages at my right breast. "Maker, but you're beautiful, Evie. Have I told you I'm a lucky man?"

"Once or twice," I reply, urging his mouth toward my nipple. "Try using your teeth."

"Like this?"

I press into him, quite against my will, and that only encourages him to add extra force, and tongue, and soon he has me groaning and writhing beneath him. He's a quick study, too, and fast finds the right combination of touch and kisses to keep my eyes from staying open and my voice from working properly. And all the while he's smiling at me and making appreciative noises at some of the more creative sounds he wrests from between my teeth.

"Trousers off," I gasp.

"Aw, but I'm having fun!" He pairs the words with a nip at my neck that makes my hips buck.

I hiss in frustration and leap at him, using his surprise to grant me the chance to pin _him_ to the bed. He's polite enough to stay where I put him, and so I'm able to straddle his thighs and work on stripping him to his smallclothes. When I meet his eyes, breathing heavily because there are only two thin layers of cloth separating us, I see uncertainty again. I run my tongue from his neck to his hip, curving my back so that my chest brushes against him while I slide downward. He groans and sags back against the pillow, hands clutching at the bedding.

"You are allowed to touch me, you know."

His eyes don't open. "I don't know what they want to _do_. So they're just going to stay there for now, if it's all the same to you."

"Shame," I sigh, leaning to one side and tracing my fingers along his inner thigh. When he hisses and twitches, I smile. "Someone likes that."

"You can be a horrible tease," he mutters.

"Oh?" I lick at his hip and slide my hand slowly between his legs, brushing against hot, hardened skin.

"Oh, _Maker_ ," he groans.

I spend a few minutes caressing him through his smalls, enjoying the look on his face and the way his breathing becomes ragged. Eventually, his eyes open again, and I see nothing but need, which the pit of my stomach assures me is the best thing that has ever happened to me. He grabs me around the hips and puts my back to the bed again, hauling impatiently at what's left of our undergarments. Once we are both naked, he slides his legs between my own and kisses me hungrily, hands roaming until I'm moaning into his mouth and against his neck.

"Last chance to back out," I whisper in his ear, and am not surprised to receive an annoyed bite to the shoulder. I lift my hips toward his, and then he's pushing into me, and my nails are digging into his back in relief. He groans against my shoulder as I surround him, and presses his forehead to mine for a few moments as we both appreciate the sensations overwhelming us. Then he is thrusting, and I'm groaning and clinging to him happily, biting and clawing at what skin I can to set the speed I wish.

Nothing has ever felt so lovely, my nerves insist, from skin to stomach to mouth as he kisses me again and runs a hand through my hair. I open my eyes to catch him watching me, and manage a half-smile before he takes all motor control away from me with clever nips to my shoulders. I arch against him with a muffled gasp and catch a happy, smug smile on his face before my eyes slide shut again and my head falls against the pillow. All I can hear is his heavy breathing, and my own sounds, which my brain appears quite unable to control, and the appreciative growl I gain when I begin pushing to meet his every thrust. My nerves are desperate—just the slightest bit more sensation and I will stay sane. Just a few seconds until I'm not clinging to him frantically and begging for more quite against my will.

When my climax finally hits, I'm dimly aware of Alistair staring at my face in fascination. I would be self-conscious, except that he manages to look as happy as my body _feels_ as I wrap my legs around him and groan in relief. This was worth being patient. This was worth not rushing him. His expression alone is enough to convince me.

My lungs burn and I'm growing chilled from sweat by the time my nerves are sated and am able to return my attentions to my lover. I kiss at his neck, and lick at his shoulders, as my nails run lines down his back and I urge him on with my voice. He gasps my name, thrusting into me so roughly that I'm nearly rammed into the headboard, and then freezes, panting against my shoulder and trembling slightly. Eventually, we manage to tangle in each other's arms and lie gasping for air. I find his hair and brush my fingers through it, petting him happily.

"I'm the luckiest man in the world," he murmurs at last, and I feel my face flush again.

"I am glad you enjoyed yourself."

"There are not words," he sighs. "Well, maybe three. Is it okay if I'm in love with you, Evie Cousland?" I kiss the top of his head.

"Yes."

"Good. Because I do. I love you." He meets my eyes and strokes my cheek with his thumb. "I have for a while. And I still can't believe that I actually have you."

"Get used to it," I smile, snuggling further into his arms. "I have no intention of losing you to anything."

"Anyone, or anything?"

"Other women. Archdemons. Old age. You are mine," I giggle, and wrap him in my arms.

His face turns suddenly sober. "So it's settled? We stay by each others' sides, even after the Blight?"

"Yes." Somehow, darkspawn be damned. At least I'll have someone I _like_ to die beside.

"And I get to help you with the rest of your list, and with Highever?"

"Yes, if you must. You are half-bred for the job, you know."

He ignores the tease. "And you love me?"

Something in my throat catches. "Yes."

"Say it," he grins. "No, come on! I had to, and I swear my heart nearly stopped!"

When I shake my head again, he begins tickling me, and refuses to relent until there are tears in my eyes. "I do! Blast you, stop! Alistair!"

"You what?" He raises an eyebrow at me.

"Love you, you sod," I mutter, wiping at my eyes and taking deep breaths to calm my nerves. The bedding is a mess from my kicking and flailing, and I've dislodged several pillows in my attempts to avoid his stupid fingers.

"Perfect." He rewards me with a kiss, then falls to his side and draws me to him. "I have a good feeling about this. I think we work well together."

"Mmmmm."

We wash off at my vanity and have some of the wine that has been left in the room before retiring to bed for the night. Alistair wants to return to his room, but I insist that he remain with me, because by now I'm used to sleeping in his arms, and this time frustration will not keep me awake. So we clamber into my needlessly enormous bed and curl about each other in the center until sleep takes us, naked and warm.

~*-*~

I come to several hours later, and my first thought is that the bed is smaller. But no, that's not right; the problem is that there are more people _in_ it. I squint my eyes and sigh once I recognize the other figures. Andraste's song, I really _am_ better off in a tent. Or perhaps my doors shall all need locks in the future. "Lel, Morrigan? What in the Maker's name are you doing in my bed?"

"Oh, dear," the bard slurs, clutching at her head. "I'm not sure I want to tell you."

"Fine, then, I shall," Morrigan mutters, lifting her head from the pillow next to me. "We are in here with you and Alistair because Leliana woke up wrapped in Zevran's arms in the _library—_ "

"And found Morrigan in the hall, sneaking out of the boys' room, where she woke up next to the bann." Leliana finishes.

I feel Alistair's arms tighten around me. "Evie, please tell me that this is a nightmare."

"Oh, 'tis a nightmare," the mage agrees, "but none of us are sleeping."

"This still does not explain why the two of you are in _my_ bed," I point out.

"Would you want to face Wynne right now, if you were us?" Leliana asks, and I collapse into my pillows with a resigned sigh.

"No, I suppose not." I'm not entirely convinced that I want to face Wynne myself after the two of them have made such a spectacle of themselves: I fear she'll tell me that I've set a poor example as their leader. "Fine, stay in here, if you wish. And we will leave before the bann wakes, with any luck."

"Could we leave Zevran behind, do you think?" asks Leliana.

"Nonsense, Lel." I kiss Alistair on the cheek and resign myself to something other than the night of blissful relaxation that I'd hoped for. "You had better go back to your room, after all," I tell him. "If the maid comes in to stoke the fire and sees all four of us in the bed, she'll have an apoplexy."

"Do we know where my trousers are?" he grumbles, and stiffens when Leliana and Morrigan begin to giggle.

"Oh, someone else had fun tonight!" Leliana teases.

"Ignore them," I sigh. "They are still drunk."

"Yes, so I smell."

He rises and begins looking for his clothes, shooting occasional paranoid glances over his shoulder to my bedmates, who are both watching him merrily. He leaves after giving me one last goodbye kiss, and to my relief the girls are asleep almost instantly. I quit my bed with a sigh and dress in my own clothes, leaving the gown in a vengeful crumple on the floor, and then let myself into the hall to begin preparations for our departure. The sooner we're on the road, I think, the better for us all it will be.

My first stop is the library, where I find Zevran beneath a long reading table, hair loose, and sadly lacking in trousers. I locate those before kneeling under the table and shaking him by the shoulder.

"Zev? Zev, wake up."

He mutters something in Antivan and reaches for me, and so I shake harder. "Zevran!"

The elf's eyes open, and he blinks at me twice. "I remember enjoying my evening, but I am nearly certain you left with your Warden." He clutches at his head. "Oh, that hurts. I think I hit my head when Lel and I wer—"

"Here are your clothes," I interrupt, tossing them down to him and rising to bring him out of my line of sight. "We need to get you back to your room."

"True, bed does sound nice. How kind of you to look after me so." Uncoordinated rustling sounds emanate from beneath the table.

I tap my foot. "Kindness has nothing to do with it. I do not wish you scaring the serving staff."

"So cruel, my Warden." He sways to his feet and buttons his trousers. They must be Alistair's; they're far too large for him. I remember the only pair I''ve ever seen him in at camp and decide that the loan was a wise one. If the bloodstains had not horrified the arlessa, the cut of them would have.

When he stumbles, I sigh and put an arm around his waist. "Come on."

"You are very warm," he smiles, leaning his head against my shoulder.

"And you are very drunk. Bet you a sovereign that you regret this tomorrow."

He shakes his head. "Leliana is a fine woman, and a better bedmate."

"And if she regrets it?"

"My ego does not allow me to entertain such thoughts," he retorts, and trips as we cross the threshold.

"As you say, but if you have made the journey to the Dalish awkward, Zev, I will never forgive you."

"Ah, you speak as though punishment from you would not be a welcome thing," he grins.

"Would Leliana approve of such talk?"

"I am unsure," he yawns. "I shall ask her tomorrow."

Their room smells overpoweringly of male, and I hear Sten curse in qunari as I open the door. "What now?"

"Just bringing a lost boy back to bed," I say.

"You are not his mother."

"But I am in charge of him, and he shall be useless tomorrow if he sleeps on the floor."

"And I will be useless for lack of sleep from all this coming and going." He turns away from me on the bed; as the largest man, he appears to be the only one not required to share. Alistair is out cold next to the bann, who appears to be even drunker than Zevran. If he wakes up in the middle of the night, Teagan will be very confused, indeed.

"You get to bunk with Oghren," I tell the elf, and stifle a smile as he rolls his eyes.

"And the night was going so well." But he crawls onto the bed and is unconscious again almost immediately.

I let myself out as quietly as possible before walking toward the kitchens to find the morning staff. The more I see of my companions, the more convinced I am that we should leave before the household wakes. To my surprise, I stumble across the arl, who appears not to have gone to bed yet, sitting in an alcove with a book.

"Oh, Eamon! Why are you awake so late?"

He gives me a wan smile. "After spending so long sleeping, I find my bed somewhat less than comforting. What of you, Evelyn?"

I rub at my neck. "Caring for those of my companions that were too liberal with your wine."

He chuckles. "I am sure that they needed the relaxation. Do not fault them a small break from your trials." When he points to the seat across from him, I take it and smile pleasantly. "Now, since you are awake and seem remarkably clear-headed, perhaps I might run an idea by you. You come from a long line of expert strategists, after all."

"Certainly, Eamon."

He closes his book and leans forward. "I need your honest opinion. What would you say if I told you that I plan to depose Loghain by making Alistair king?"

"I... " His blue eyes meet mine, and there's no trace of humor within them. For the first time in my life, words fail me completely.


	13. Love Burns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is AO.

Wynne, Leliana, Alistair and I crouch in a circle around the fallen beast, watching in silence as she breathes her last and her blood seeps into the ground. My knife hangs in my right hand, and it feels as though it must weigh more than Sten's greatsword; killing in self-defense is easier than ending the life of a creature in agony as it begs at your feet.

Wynne places a hand on my shoulder. "You did well. She felt no pain."

I consider admitting that I learned that particular technique from Zevran a few days prior, but decide against it. "I am beginning to think that the Dalish keeper is not being entirely honest about what is happening here," I mutter, and clean my blade with a lack of coordination fed by anger. "'Mindless beasts' do not talk, or beg for swift deaths and messages to be sent to their former husbands."

"What do you want to do?" Alistair asks. "It seems wrong to just...leave her here."

I shake my head. "We do not know their burial customs. We should tell Arthas that we have found his wife. And then think." I stand wearily and re-sheath my knife.

When we reach the camp, Wynne offers to speak to Arthas on my behalf, but it seems wrong to avoid the conversation. He knows what I'll say as soon as he sees my face, in any case.

"You found Danyla, then."

"Yes. She had become a werewolf, just as you suspected." I hand over a scarf, dirt-spotted and slightly frayed from its time in the woods. "She asked me to give you this."

As the cloth touches his hand, a flicker of pain crosses his face. His fingers crumple around it, and he takes a single, heavy breath. "Where is she now?"

"I am sorry, Arthas. She is dead."

He knows that I've killed her, but he thanks me regardless. Thanks me, and gives me a pendant for my troubles. I stare at it, horrified that he has rewarded me for murdering his wife. No matter that she begged for my blade and thanked me herself when the blow struck. It seems wrong. It _is_ wrong. This situation never should have been allowed to happen. But the longer that I'm here, the more convinced I become that their leader is somehow responsible, and is letting his people die _willingly_.

One of the perks of camping in such an old forest is that food is readily available, but our dinner, though fresh and cooked skillfully by Morrigan, tastes like sand to my tongue, and it's not long before I've given up and passed my portion on to Absolon. While the rest of them finish their meals, I dismantle Arthas' pendant and add it to the growing collection of tokens around my neck. Darkspawn blood from the Joining, Niall's ring, a signet from one of Branka's fallen clansmen, a wooden wheel from one of Connor's toys that was shattered underfoot during our battle with the demon, and now the stone and chain links from the necklace. It's not a pretty conglomerate, and it feels heavy around my neck, but I would feel worse if I ceased adding to it. All that's missing is something of my family's. Afterward, I rest my head in Alistair's lap as Leliana plays for us before bed, but that makes me feel worse, not better; I have not yet found a way to tell him of Eamon's plans. It'd be simpler if I merely wished to warn him, but days of thought have convinced me that Alistair taking the throne will be the best way to reunite Ferelden and fight off the darkspawn. My only worry now is convincing him, or worse, making him angry when I tell him that Eamon's idea is sound; he hates the noble life, as he's made clear to me on multiple occasions. But then Wynne had to add her reservations about our relationship as well, and now I feel _selfish_ for not being honest with him.

He knows that I'm moping, but Zevran calls me aside before Alistair can ask what is the matter. "I was wondering... if I might speak with you about something, my Warden."

"Of course," I agree, and follow him a short distance away from camp.

"I find myself at a loss," he admits, sitting heavily underneath a tree. "Leliana has not spoken to me since we left Redcliffe."

I haven't been looking forward to this conversation. "Zev, can you blame her? She got drunk, and you seduced her in a _library_."

He scratches at his head. "I have done worse, believe me. There was one ti—"

"Do not tell her that," I interrupt. "Ever. It will not help your case."

"What have I done wrong? Did I not please her? Surely she has told you."

She has, though I'm not about to break her confidence by telling him that his prowess was _not_ an issue. "My guess is that she does not like casual sex."

"What is not to like?" He blinks at me, completely at a loss. The chantry girl has left the whorehouse boy with no solid footing, and I doubt that there will be a way to explain this to him clearly.

"Some people prefer stable relationships," I answer. "They want someone who is more than just a bedmate."

"Ah. I have never been in that sort of situation," he tells my boots. "Where does one begin? As a point of curiosity only."

As though we were still unaware that he has a _heart_. Poor Zevran.

"Have you tried being her friend?"

"I am not too good at friends, either," he chuckles.

I cross my arms. "Are we not friends?"

"Well, yes, but you are a killer, my Warden. You will not judge me."

I wish he'd stop saying that to me. "She might surprise you, Zev. Do not let her devout veneer scare you away."

"Certainly not! I have great faith in the Maker, but I am... well. Who I am."

"Look! A common ground," I snicker, and instantly regret it when he glares at me. "My point is, stop trying to seduce her again, and just be her friend. Talk with her like you do me, with no agenda."

"Oh, is that the mistake I have been making with you? I certainly have an agenda. Just no chance, it seems." He grins when I frown, but I refuse to rise to the bait.

"Funny. And less of that, too, might help."

His eyes widen dramatically. "You want me to change who I am for the sake of sex?"

"No. Just develop a little tact. You will still be the same twisted elf on the inside even after you learn to keep your mouth shut."

"So cruel, my Warden." He rises to his feet and brushes at his armor. "Perhaps I might try making friends, then. She is a lovely woman, and I would rather talk to her than not."

"An excellent decision," I reply, and we turn and walk toward the campfire.

"I suppose killing Sten and taking his watch shift with her is out of the question, though," he muses, and to my horror the qunari appears to overhear him. Their eyes meet, and Zevran smiles winningly.

"You may certainly try," Sten answers, then returns to his dinner.

"I wouldn't, Zev," Alistair interjects. "I've seen him naked, on fire, and completely unfazed."

"Yes, the last parlor trick guarding the sacred wastebin. That was hardly real fire."

The Templar sighs. "You've ruined it! I'm trying to be on your side, Sten."

"My side is fine the way it is."

" _Enough_ ," I interject, glaring at Zevran, who is about to say something else. "Maker's mercy, Lel, play one more song, will you?"

In the few minutes before bed, I convince Zevran and Morrigan to take Alistair and my watch shift so that I might speak with him. They, of course, assume that this is code for sex, and I grumble through the resultant teases from both parties. As though I'd skip watch duty to bed my lover. We take Absolon, a wolf pelt, and a waterskin away from the main camp and settle down in a nearby clearing.

"So are you going to finally tell me why you've been so morose?" He scoops me into his arms and pulls us both over onto the pelt. Absolon wiggles against us and rests his head on his paws.

I nestle against his chest and spend a few moments breathing. "There are several things. Wynne had a chat with me."

He pets my back. "Yeah, me too. That killed the afterglow more than waking up next to Morrigan and Lel."

"Did she tell you that our being together is selfish?"

"Yes, actually," he replies. "Why, do you believe her?"

"No, but." Yes, the more I think about it, but I don't want to admit it aloud. "What if she is right?"

Alistair makes a thoughtful noise. "You're going to have to give me an example, dearest."

I pose him the question that has made it difficult to sleep since my conversation with Wynne. "If you had to choose between saving my life and stopping the archdemon, which would you do?"

He pauses. "I don't think you'll like my answer. Tell me yours."

"I would kill the archdemon." I press against his chest and throw an arm around his waist. "Kill it, and hate myself for the rest of my life, but if I did anything else, that _would_ be selfish of me."

"I wish I were as strong as you. I don't know if I could do the same."

"It is not truly a _choice_ , Alistair. We are Grey Wardens, and if we cannot do what we are meant to, we should not be—"

"This is a poor time to sound like Duncan," he interjects. "Duncan would have advocated turning thousands of dwarves into golems to fight the darkspawn, as well, you know."

"I just do not... " I sigh. "After the Blight, we might be able to be selfish, and do things we _want_ to instead of what is necessary. But until that archdemon is dead and Ferelden is safe, the best we can do is stay by each other's sides and try to stay alive. Do you see that?"

"Do I have to?" He kisses me, and I almost let him distract us away from the conversation. I'm forced to pull away and move to a sitting position to escape him.

"Yes. You must promise me."

He shifts to sit up beside me. "You actually want me to promise to let you die?"

"If it ends the Blight? Yes. In any other case, certainly not," I continue. "I would be very angry with you if you allowed me to die for no reason."

"Usually I adore how driven and practical you are, but this hurts, Evie. I love you. That would kill me."

"Well, then we would both be in the Fade. Problem solved."

"Cute," he grumbles, and then makes several unflattering, frustrated sounds. "But yes. Yes, you're right. You're always right. The Blight is our priority."

"I am glad you agree. And that brings me to what Arl Eamon suggested we do about Loghain."

"Something tells me I won't like this." His eyes meet mine questioningly.

Where is my Cousland way with words when I need it most? "...He wants to make you king."

Alistair laughs before realizing that I'm not joking "...Maker's stones, has he gone mad?"

"You have a blood claim," I point out, "and we will not be able to fight a civil war _and_ darkspawn. You know this."

"Yes, but I'd be an awful king!"

"I disagree." When he sulks against me, I wrap him in my arms and begin systematically mussing up his hair with my fingers. "And I would be there to help. You are in love with a noblewoman who happens to be rather good at leading, or have you forgotten?"

"Sure, unless you _die_ , and then everyone is stuck with idiot me. I'll choke on my fork at a dinner party and that's it for Ferelden," he mutters. When I bite his shoulder, he resorts to whining. "Honestly, if I agree to this and you're not there to help me, I'll never forgive you."

I blink. "Wait, you actually would?"

"After all this talk of not being selfish, and doing what we must to stop the Blight, how can I say no?" He kisses my forehead. "Anyway, it will make it easier to help you with your list if I command a country. We can deal with Howe, take care of Highever, and maybe even rebuild the Wardens. As long as you're there with me, I...I'd try."

"It is settled, then. I shall add it to the list."

"Excellent." He falls back against the pelt and crosses his arms behind his head, gazing up at me for several moments before laughing like my brother used to when he would beat me at chess. "You know, the more I think about it," he grins, "the more I like this king idea. I get money, and good food, and an armory to play in, and you get to do all the work while I take all the credit!"

"Not all of the credit. We Couslands are known for our skills, you know."

"Fair enough," he shrugs. "I don't mind being your puppet."

Yes, and I'm sure there will be plenty of dissenters that shall say just that: Alistair the Puppet King, doing what I say as I pull the strings, moving, speaking, and even _sounding_ how I wish him to.

...Now that's an idea. I straddle his stomach and lean down to give him a long, deep kiss. "Perhaps we should go to bed."

"After all that complaining that you weren't ditching watch for sex?" Maker, but I adore the way his eyes narrow when he smiles.

"This is not sex," I explain, planting a small line of kisses along his jaw. "This is me offering a reward for being obedient."

"That probably shouldn't appeal to me as much as it does." He surges to his feet, taking me with him, and I cling to his side and giggle as I find myself suddenly airborne. "Darling, less knee to the kidneys, please." He spins me toward his back, and I throw my arms around his neck and wrap my legs about his waist. Absolon cocks his head at us curiously and whines.

"Better?"

"Getting there," he grins, grabbing hold of my thighs and hauling me into a more secure position. "So, your tent or mine?"

"We have had this discussion before," I remind him primly. Four times, in fact, since last week.

"Look, it was _one_ pair of trousers—"

"That was soaking wet and in the middle of your bedroll," I frown. "Not exactly what I want on my back after going through the effort of seducing you."

"Oh, fine." He breaks into a run, and I only half-stifle a shriek against his shoulder as we burst into view of the camp. Absolon appears seconds later, barking happily and bounding toward the fire.

Sten is still awake, gazing into the embers, and surges to his feet as we appear, hand to his sword. "What is wrong?" He scans the forest behind us, and then me for injuries.

"Sten," Alistair frowns. "Evelyn needs to be in her tent _right now_."

His brows lower. "Why?"

"Because I'd rather not take her clothes off out here."

My cheeks flush scarlet. He's become _shameless_ since I bedded him after the dance. If this behavior continues once we are back at Redcliffe, I'll need to speak to him about it, but at camp it does no real harm other than to mortify my poor qunari. He frowns at us both and mutters something under his breath before taking his bedroll and moving pointedly to the other side of the camp.

"I think he just called you loud," Alistair whispers to me, and I smack him in the ear.

"Or, he thinks that you are a _fool_."

"I see no reason why both of those can't be true." He pushes aside my tent flap and collapses onto my bedroll, sending us both to the ground with a heavy thud. I give him no chance to recuperate: his shirt is off and he's pinned beneath my thighs, back to the ground, within seconds of our impact. He tries to laugh, but it's difficult to achieve while I'm kissing him, and the sound soon fades into quiet panting.

I like the panting, and so I do my best to make him even more out of breath: teeth to the neck, nails to the chest, and gentle grinding against the bulge developing under his trousers that makes me nearly as dazed as it does him. He lies beneath me, stunned, and I give him only the time it takes for me to remove my shirt and breastband for him to catch his breath. Once my breasts are in clear sight, he smiles up at me hazily.

"In a hurry?" he gasps.

"Tired of you speaking, actually." I unlace his trousers and pull them toward his knees.

"Haven't you figured out that it's not easy to shut me u—oh, _Maker_ ," he groans, bucking his hips toward me unconsciously as I take him into my mouth. I've wanted to try this on him since Leliana coaxed me to tell her what all I'd taught him so far. She promised me that I wouldn't be disappointed by his reactions, and I quickly realize that she was telling the truth. He tangles his fingers in the hair at the back of my neck, feeling the motion of my head as I slide my mouth along his shaft. What I can see of his face looks rapturous; his lips are parted, and his head is tossed back against my pillow.

I'm also enjoying the feel of him against my tongue far more than I had expected to. He's warm, and hard, and utterly powerless beneath me because I've overwhelmed his nerves. My puppet king, making the sounds that I want him to make, and loving every moment of it. I trace my tongue along his crown and smile as he bucks against me again and pushes deep into my mouth. I wish that I could take more of him without running the risk of choking myself and spoiling the mood. Maybe with practice; the thought sends desperate pangs of need into the pit of my stomach.

Removing my pants proves difficult from this position, but I manage to do it without losing rhythm, and so he's surprised when I pull away and straddle him and he feels nothing but skin. The look on his face as I guide him into me is delicious, and we're forced to stifle simultaneous groans. He covers my mouth with a hand and I bite at his thumb to silence myself as I bring my hips to his again and again. This has fast become one of my favorite positions because of the way Alastair watches me as I guide us. Sometimes he smiles, but usually he alternates between gazing raptly at my face or watching me flex and buck atop him. His hands will slide along my arms, and stomach, and against my breasts, feeling me while he commits the image to memory. I adore the attention.

We're both sweating by the time Alistair takes me by the arms and pulls me downward so that he can bite at my lower lip and moan against my ear. I slow our pace just to tease him, and to my surprise he instantly flips me over and pins me to the bedding. Struggling seems impolite, so I convince him to let me drape my legs over his shoulders. He presses against me uncertainly, and then laughs as he realizes my legs are limber enough to fold with him.

"You are _very_ flexible," he murmurs into my ear, and I lick at his neck while he re-enters me. This time I'm not quite able to stifle my cry of pleasure; he simply feels too good, and each thrust is hitting exactly the right spots to make my vision haze over. I sag into the bedding and focus on breathing and tightening around him each time he withdraws, and soon need to bite at my lower lip to keep quiet. We really do try to be polite, but it's proving more difficult each time. He's learning too quickly, for one, and I'm beginning to understand just how powerful of a tool voice can be during sex to not put it to use.

And sometimes I no longer possess the coordination; he covers my mouth again as I climax, muffling my cries with his fingers, and then his mouth when the sounds prove too enticing. We allow my legs to fall to either side of him, and so I'm able to wrap them around his waist and pull him closer to me. I cling to his shoulders and taste the sweat on his skin as he makes his last few thrusts before hissing and biting at my neck to keep from groaning too loudly himself.

Sometimes I think that I might like the post-sex haze more than the act itself. I'm calm, and he's warm, and we're always able to clean ourselves up and then crawl under my blanket and sleep for a while before the nightmares find us. Sometimes, we avoid them entirely, which is also lovely.

Regaining consciousness, however, is rarely as pleasing. A hand on my shoulder shakes me awake, and I feel Alistair stir beside me.

"Wake up, you two," Leliana says. "It's time to go see the werewolves."

I open my eyes to find her in the tent with us, smiling smugly.

"No," Alistair grumbles, tightening his arms around me. "Get someone else to do it. We're warm."

"Get up," I order, and pry myself out of his sleepy grasp. "Come on."

"Can't we stay behind?" he whines. "What in this forest is stupid enough to attack someone dressed like Morrigan?"

"Have you _seen_ what is in this forest, dearest?" The rhyming, talking tree alone was enough to make most of us jumpy for most of yesterday, and it had proven fairly benign. No, it had been the empty campsite that nearly killed us all. "They need us, and this is for the Wardens, in any case."

Alistair rises with a sigh and begins searching for his shirt as Leliana exits the tent and announces our conscious state to the rest of our companions. Once I'm decent, I step out and join them.

"So, who wants to try their luck in the woods today?" I ask, rummaging through our supplies for an apple. I have gained a new appreciation for fresh fruits after our time in the Deep Roads.

"Not I," answers Morrigan. "I have already had my fill of trees for one lifetime, and yet I am back among them."

"At least these trees talk back," Zevran replies. "That is a step up, no?"

" _No._ "

The elf shrugs. "I see we are destined to disagree on this point. I shall go, my Warden."

Wynne closes her book. "You will need a healer. I doubt the werewolves shall just let you walk in."

This prediction proves correct: though I no longer view the creatures as either the beasts or the aggressors that they had been painted as by the elves, they force us to fight them, and dozens of them are felled before we're offered the chance to speak to a "Lady of the Forest," who appears to be something of a leader for the wolves.

The Lady tells us the rest of the story, and my suspicions of the Dalish keeper are confirmed. The curse that made the werewolves what they were was of his creation, and though his own clan is now falling to it, he refuses to break it. All because of a tragedy that occurred centuries ago, between elves and humans long dead, that only Zathrian and the Lady remember.

At first I can't believe that his lust for vengeance is still so consuming after so many centuries; my own desire for revenge against Arl Howe is strong, indeed, but to achieve something of this magnitude I would need to kill him, his sons, and all of his kith and kin, hunting them down in cold blood until not even their most distant cousins remained alive. The very thought is as exhausting as it is unsettling. But when we confront the keeper, I learn that it is cowardice, not vengeance, which prevents him from ending the curse. Because if the magic dies, he goes with it.

"And so because you fear death, you allowed Danyla and your other hunters to die instead," I observe as the werewolves snap and snarl in a circle around us. "You are their keeper, Zathrian, and you have betrayed them all."

An idiot, yes, as many cowards are, but also not a bad man; in the end, he agrees to undo the magic, and as he and the Lady fall to the floor of the ruin, the wolves around us begin the painful regression to their human forms. Zathrian falls to save his people, and the Lady to free those who sought her aid, but neither death would have been necessary if the blasted elf had not been so _selfish_.

No wonder Wynne is worried about me and Alistair; few can handle power, and even fewer responsibility, it seems. Loghain has failed, and Zathrian. Against such a record, and such staggering losses of innocent lives, her worry that I'll make a similar mistake doesn't seem nearly as insulting.

Before we leave to tell the Dalish what has happened to their leader, I arrange Zathrian into a more dignified position on the floor. An idiot who hurt many, but managed to right his wrongs in the end, and thus deserving of respect as well as rage. Perhaps Loghain might be similarly convinced, though I can't imagine what he could possibly do to atone for Ostagar and the death of Cailan. He'd have to give up his claim on the throne and end the Blight himself to have any hope of making the slightest amends.

I tell my companions what occurred over dinner, served to us by Wynne, and for once we're all able to agree that the right course of action was taken: Sten and Morrigan are pleased that Zathrian died as a result of misleading us, and the others are pleased that werewolf and elf alike were cured. Leliana brings her instrument out once the conversation dies down, and to our surprise begins to sing; she has played for us each night since joining us at Lothering, but never once added her voice to the mix.

Unusual for a bard, but I'd always assumed that she had her reasons. Two verses in, and Absolon is asleep with his head in my lap, and Sten appears oddly melancholy.

"That was a lovely performance," Zevran smiles as she finishes. "Do you know any Antivan songs?"

"Why, I—uh, that is, yes." She glances at me guiltily, remembering that I ve ordered her not to ignore him. "Yes, I do. Why?"

And so we learn that our assassin can sing, as well. Leliana plays for him, suspiciously at first, but as soon as she realizes that all he wants is to share some of his homeland's music, her demeanor becomes instantly warmer. I take my knives out and begin honing their edges as Zevran calls Alistair to them and insists on teaching him a song about a wolf and her cubs because he needs someone to help him sing it in a round. This proves to be too much for Morrigan to handle, and she leaves us for her tent.

I check the buckles and clasps on my armor while listening to Zevran become increasingly annoyed at Alistair's inept mangling of Antivan. In the end, I think it best to take him to my tent before it comes to blows. I lie in his arms as the camp winds down around us, and enjoy the feeling of his fingers in my hair. The only sound left is the wind in the trees and the crackling of our dying fire, which soon has us both drifting peacefully.


	14. Deep Cuts

Alistair and I agree to take second watch to give Leliana and Sten a respite, and so we clamber into my tent early to get what sleep we can. Over the past two days the nightmares have gotten worse again, and our exhaustion has slowed the party's progress toward Redcliffe. Our hope is that sleeping early will spare us the worst of the nightmares, but this proves not to work. We jolt awake at the same time—as has been happening since the forest—covered in cold sweat and breathing heavily. I wonder if all the Wardens in Thedas are upright in their bunks currently, gazing at each other in terror as Alistair and I are.

"Evie," he gasps. "It saw us. It _saw us_."

I place a hand over his mouth. "Hush. Do you hear that?"

Something is moving through the trees. I tell myself that it's Absolon, and that I'm nervy from making eye contact with an archdemon, but then Sten howls, " _Katara, bas!_ "

"That means something bad just happened, right?" Alistair groans, reaching for his sword.

The snap of a bowstring and Leliana calling, "We're under attack!" answers him effectively. We're out of my tent in an instant, me with my daggers and he with his sword. No time for shield or armor. The burning in my blood tells me the nature of our attackers; how had they gotten this close without us noticing?

The camp is in chaos: darkspawn are everywhere, shrieking and lunging at my companions. Wynne and Morrigan stand back-to-back, stunning and freezing everything that they can, while Sten struggles to fight off the ring that has surrounded him. Absolon and Oghren take one down together, then howl in unison and lunge to aid the qunari. Alistair's shouts of rage draw them from our mages—and more from the shadows—and seconds later my blades are flashing and cutting through twisted muscle as I backstab everything within reach. Zevran is beside me, matching his dagger strokes to mine. Once several more have fallen, we turn from Alistair to Sten and kill the rest that the qunari has been holding.

Hot blood coats my skin as they fall before me, and I'm forced to duck and weave to avoid claws as they begin to turn from the warriors and fight back directly. I'm saved by Absolon, who howls and charges as soon as he realizes that I'm in danger.

My voice is hoarse from screaming by the time we've dispatched the last of them. I stand in the center of the camp, clutching my knives, and check that my friends are still alive. Yes. Good.

Sten returns his greatsword to his back and gazes at my stomach. "You are bleeding, _kadan_."

I shake my head. Open wounds pose no risk for me; my blood is already corrupted. "What about you? Do any of you have blood on your face or in wounds? Did anyone get any in their mouths or eyes?"

Wynne helps me inspect them all. Miraculously, everyone has been spared serious injury: Leliana has a cut on her cheek but no darkspawn blood on her face, and Alistair's shield arm is heavily lacerated, but armor took the rest of everyone's blows.

Would that I had been wearing any. My side burns, and I look down to see my own blood mingling with the viscous darkspawn blood coating my torso and legs. Three gashes through my flesh, beneath my left breast, show torn muscle and the faintest glint of rib.

"Ow," I mutter, and feel suddenly dizzy as the adrenaline fades and the pain sets in fully.

Alistair and Wynne are beside me in seconds, he with a blanket and she with her magic, making the skin knit and heal before my eyes. Soon all I feel is a slight shake from the rush and flushed cheeks from the knowledge that the entire camp has just seen me fight naked. I collapse beside the fire and wrap the blanket around my shoulders tightly, waiting for the trembling to pass.

"I, for one, appreciate your dedication to the darkspawn fight," chuckles Zevran, joining me. "It is inspiring to see."

"Shut up, Zev."

Though Alistair and I know that there are no others nearby, Sten paces the perimeter of the camp, listening for more darkspawn, as the rest of my companions join me by the fire. "Perhaps in Redcliffe you might purchase nightclothes?" suggests Morrigan. "Seems a logical conclusion to this evening."

"That is an excellent idea," I agree calmly.

"Is that part of Warden training, fighting while undressed?" Leliana giggles.

"Let's not forget that Alistair battled them in nothing but trousers."

"No, really, let's _do_ forget that," he mutters, holding his battered arm out for Wynne to heal.

"Not nearly as majestic as our shrieking, blood-soaked leader, I'm afraid," Zevran frowns. "Though the knowledge that the darkspawn blood will not kill them does detract from their impressiveness somewhat."

"Yes, please do not follow my example," I manage. "The last thing I need is one of you getting sick."

"Perhaps if the Wardens did not share a tent, they would not fight so recklessly," Sten calls from under a nearby tree.

"Alas, that is unlikely," Zevran grins. "Our Evie always sleeps naked."

"It's true," Alistair sighs. "Hey—wait, how do _you_ know that?"

I want to die. I want to die, so I take my blanket and walk away to rinse the blood from my skin and leave Zevran to dig himself out of the hole he's just created. Leliana finds me a few minutes later with a change of clothes, and so I'm able to return to the camp clean, completely dressed, and just as mortified as I was when I left.

Before Alistair and I take our watch shift and allow everyone another attempt at sleep, we discuss the implications of the darkspawn being able to sense us Wardens just as we can sense them. "Simply put," I sigh, burying my head in my hands, "there is no guarantee that this will not happen again."

"We need to set traps around the camp at night," Sten insists. "It is unacceptable that we were caught unaware."

"That can be done. I shall buy supplies for those at Redcliffe," I reply.

" _You_ can make traps?" Alistair frowns.

I'm not certain that I like the way that everyone is staring at me like I've just declared myself the next Bride of the Maker. "Of course I can. I grew up hunting, did I not?"

"Right. How could I forget the hunting," he mutters, picking at the drying blood on his arm.

The others prepare to return to bed, then. I take out my knives and begin cleaning and honing them, telling Alistair to go rinse off before he joins me at watch; I may be able to tolerate the smell of unwashed man, but the stench of darkspawn blood still makes me feel nauseated before long. Sten assembles his bedroll while the others move to their tents, but instead of lying upon it, he sits beside me at the fire.

"Good evening." I offer him a cloth and stone, and he unsheathes his greatsword and begins inspecting its blade with a careful eye.

"I was wrong," he says after a pause, drawing the stone along the blade with practiced motions.

I've resigned myself to all conversations with Sten beginning without necessary context.

"About what?"

"You. You are a woman, and a worthy soldier. I am honored to have fought beside you."

And all it took was nearly being disemboweled while fighting darkspawn naked. Had I known that from the outset, we might have gotten along _much_ better. The Deep Roads would have offered ample opportunity for that sort of bonding. "Likewise," I reply. "I shall be sad when you leave us."

He shakes his head. "I shall be sad when I return."

"What do you mean?" With the Blight ended, I can't imagine why the qunari would have any interest in Ferelden.

"One day my brothers shall be sent to conquer your lands, and I will lead them."

...Unless they mean to resume the one-hundred-and-fifty-year war they began when they first arrived on the continent. Such a wonderful future I have ahead of me, after the darkspawn are defeated. I wonder if they might be persuaded to hold off the invasion for thirty years or so. "But I will not look for you," he adds, glancing sideways at me.

"Nor I you," I agree.

"And if we are to find ourselves on the same field of battle," he continues, sliding the stone along his blade again, "I will not see you."

"Nor I you," I repeat.

"Good. Then we can move on."

I wonder if he means this to be a warning, or if Ferelden's fall to his people is considered an inevitability. If the former, then he could be risking a great deal telling me this. If the latter, then it's possible that he is now speaking to me as an equal. With Sten, it's unlikely that I will ever know.

He and I continue working on our weapons until Alistair rejoins us. Once my fellow Warden sits beside me, Sten rises and sheaths his sword.

"Until tomorrow, _kadan_."

"That's the second time he's called you that tonight," Alistair muses once Sten is a safe distance away. "Any idea what it means?" When I shake my head, he laughs.

The rest of the night is uneventful, and everyone appears much calmer over breakfast. Once we're all eating, Sten looks up from his plate and fixes his eyes on me. "Where do we go now?"

"Toward Redcliffe, but... " I look at Alistair. I've been considering this for days, now, and am still unsure whether or not it's a good idea to broach the subject.

"But what?" he replies. "Did we discuss plans? I don't remember discussing plans. Other than that whole king thing."

"We will have the chance to make a small detour. How do you feel about visiting Ostagar on the way to Redcliffe?"

He stares at me over the fire. "...Why?"

"We never saw what happened. When we went into the tower, the battle was going well." Up until I took four arrows to the chest, at least. I stare into the fire for a few seconds. "I have no context."

"Do you _want_ context?" 

"I am unsure," I sigh. "But maybe there is some sign of Cailan, or Duncan, or Fergus. If they.... They deserve more than rotting on a battlefield."

"Everyone who died there deserves more than that," Alistair frowns.

"I know, but we cannot bury them all." Not yet. Someday, when I have my soldiers back. But our small party would be at it for weeks, and we have no time.

"I have no wish to return," Morrigan sighs.

"I would go," Wynne says quietly. "I have nightmares of my own that need to be faced, I think."

"If there are darkspawn, I will gladly fight them." Sten says, and I nod my thanks.

"The rest of you should go on ahead to Redcliffe, then, and help Arl Eamon prepare for our move to his estate in Denerim. I doubt that we will be more than two days behind you."

"Eamon won't like us doing this," Alistair says.

"And he is not here," I counter. "I will send a message along with Lel with a suitable explanation."

The next morning, I order my companions to split for the first time since we all found one another. It feels strange to turn my back on them as Leliana leads the others toward Redcliffe at the fork in the road, but I remind myself that I'll see them again in a few days' time.

Highever is a coastal city; as a result, I rarely encountered snow as a child. Ostagar is at the country's southern border, however, and when we return the battlefield is frozen over. This makes the darkspawn easy to both see and track, and also allows us to identify more of our fallen comrades than I'm prepared for. The leader of the first band of enemies is wearing part of Cailan's armor, and as we work to reclaim it, I resign myself to the fact that he has been dismembered.

When I discover the truth, I almost wish that he had been. I close the distance to him at a run and stare up at my childhood friend in dismay. They've put his body, stripped naked, on display across the main bridge of the encampment. Two spikes through the chest hold him high over the battlefield, and his head lolls at an awkward angle to the left, blond hair loose and matted with blood and ice. His body is lacerated with old wounds, and several of his bones appear broken. His death was neither quick nor painless.

Poor, stupid Cailan. He might have gotten his glory if Loghain hadn't betrayed us all. Instead, he's paying the price for the teyrn's greed. I look to my left and see Alistair staring at his half-brother, completely at a loss.

"Sten, help me get him down," I manage, and we lower his body, hacking and slashing through the spikes suspending him. Once we have him against the stone, I turn to Alistair and Wynne. "We cannot leave him like this. He and I used to play together as children, and—" my voice cracks, and Alistair puts an arm around me as best he can with our armor.

"We will cremate him, _kadan_ ," Sten replies, and strides to the remains of a nearby bonfire. Alistair silently helps him gather wood, and soon we have a pyre erected.

"The wood is frozen. _He_ is frozen," I lament, and Wynne rests a hand on my shoulder.

"Hush, child." She points her hands at the pyre and sends out a burst of flame, which covers the wood and Cailan both and sends a plume of steam into the air. It takes almost a full minute, but the wood ignites. Thick smoke forms a column above us, signaling any nearby darkspawn of our location. But none come; we appear to have cleared the area.

This _shouldn't_ disappoint me.

Sten keeps watch while the rest of us stand near the pyre. We're silent for a few minutes; Wynne appears to be praying, and I'm remembering a little blond boy with a wooden sword and skinned knees.

"Evie, could you say something for him?" Alistair asks. "I didn't know him, but someone should...."

I think and listen to the crackling wood and wonder what could possibly be appropriate to the situation. What does one say to a betrayed king, left frozen and impaled above the site of a massacre? When one's final moments are full of suffering, what is left to say for them? At least Mother and Father died with dignity; I didn't witness Cailan's end, and so can offer no opinion on how bravely he met his fate.

More childhood memories rush through my thoughts, and I catch myself smiling despite my sadness. Fergus, Teagan, and Cailan, all training with my father and our knights during their visits to Highever, with me tagging doggedly along behind. My mother constantly lamenting that there were no girls my age in the region. I wonder how many nobles can boast that they've thrown mud at their king?

Finally, words come. "We need you, majesty. Times are dire, as you no doubt realized in your final moments, and Ferelden is failing without you to guide the nobles. But that is not why I miss you; I suppose I am rather selfish."

Alistair turns his head to watch me speak, and I continue after a deep breath. "I miss the little blond boy I used to get in trouble with when he spent summers learning swordplay from my father. I miss the teenager who used to pull my hair and make me cry." Maker's breath, I never thought that I'd say that.

My smile fades as more memories surface. "I miss the man who cried at his wedding because he wished that his father could have been there to see it. I miss the king who promised to bring Arl Howe to justice because he cared about my family, and who refused to let me have my way when it would have put me in danger." Though if he'd let me have my way, I might have seen Fergus before the—

Pointless. And I might have died, as well. _Never look back, pup_.

My voice cracks, and I take another breath and drop my gaze from the flames. "I miss my _friend_ , Cailan." Because he had been a friend, whether or not I had wanted to admit it at the time. "If I manage to stop this Blight, I will win that glory you always fought for when we were pretending to be heroes in our basement. And I will feel terrible."

At this, Alistair and Wynne look to me in confusion, and so I force myself to elaborate for their sakes. "I will feel terrible because no one will ever know that _you_ made my victory possible. You are why I learned to fight, because I wanted to play with you and Fergus. You are who made me strong, because you teased me until I stopped crying at the least provocation." My throat feels thick, and I'm forced to stop and breathe again.

"And you are a large part of why I am doing this now," I manage, and then proper tears come. "You deserved better, just like my family deserved better, but all I can do for all of you is fight to make the truth known. I am sorry."

The others turn away and let me cry in what passes for privacy among close travelers. Only after my breath has stopped hitching does Alistair take my leather-bound hand between his gauntlets. "That was beautiful, Evie. He sounds like he was an amazing person."

I wipe at my eyes and giggle. "He was _horrible_." When he raises an eyebrow, I continue. "He ignored me for half my life, then once we were older, made fun of my clothes, hair, voice, everything, until I would run to Nan in hysterics and leave him and the other boys alone. Cailan was a spoiled brat, but we all were, and so I can forgive him." And without Cailan, I never would have befriended Ser Gilmore; he stumbled across me crying once, when he was still a squire, and talked to me until I was smiling again. Cailan had, in a way, led me to my best friend.

"Let's go kill some darkspawn, darling." Alistair suggests, planting a quick kiss on my cheek. I nod and take my knives into my hands.

"The tower's just up ahead."

"Oh, good." He grins in that way that makes me wish that I was wrapped in his arms. "I can show you the exact spot where I realized that I wanted to see you naked."

My eyes widen, and I glance guiltily at Wynne. Thankfully, she is busy collecting Sten. "It was that memorable?"

"It was to me. You did this lunge and thrust thing with your knives, and then whirled back and—well, I can't do it, but it was very coordinated, and very _hot_ , and the skirt on your leathers is impolite, did you know that?" He flushes a little, and I giggle at him.

While we're inside, we find a way down to the battlefield; so this was how they stormed the tower. I worry that I'll find Fergus or Duncan amidst the snow, but I don't. What I _do_ find is an ogre, with two very familiar blades buried deep within its chest.

This is where he died, then, and this is what killed him. I'm about to suggest that we recover the weapons when the beast lumbers to its feet and charges our party.

 

I'm losing my mind.

 

No, no. More darkspawn magic. Sten is the first to realize, and as I hear him bellow and charge a genlock in the distance, I channel my anger into my blades and fight the long-dead beast that killed my first lover. When the darkspawn falls, so does the ogre.

Alistair and I sink to our knees in the snow and stare at the blades once I remove them from their icy host.

"I'd know these anywhere," he breathes. "These are Duncan's."

I nod. The knife that killed Ser Jory, and the sword that knocked me unconscious. Not the best memories, but still, it's comforting to have something of his in my hands again. Strangely, it's also comforting to know how he died.

"Take the sword," I urge, and he looks at me uncertainly.

"But... you gave me your father's sword." He pats the hilt fondly, and I frown at him for being silly. He has been pining after something to remember his senior Warden by since I came to in the Wilds. My father's sword was a convenience; he is foolish to be worried about angering me.

"Duncan's is the better blade," I observe. "I will not be offended as long as you return mine to me." Alistair holds out my father's sword—and the knife—with a small smile.

"Take his dagger, then."

I wrap my hand about the hilt and test the balance; the knife is better than either of the ones I currently wield.

I allow myself an hour to look for a sign of Fergus or the Highever soldiers, but find none. Afterward, we spend a few moments on the plain, staring up at the rest of Ostagar. I'm holding my father's sword in my right hand, and Duncan's dagger in my left, and feeling unusually _drained_ when Sten walks up beside me. He looks between my face and my right hand several times before speaking.

"That is your sword."

"No, it is my father's. An heirloom, actually; Couslands have fought with it for generations."

He unsheathes his greatsword and holds it out before him. "Then it is as much a part of you as _Asala_ is of me. Fight with it."

I stare down at the blade uncertainly. "I am used to daggers...."

"Then practice with me until you have adjusted."

Father's sword, and Duncan's dagger. If I'm lucky, I'll use them to end the life of Arl Howe. Perhaps even Loghain shall meet them before the end. I smile at Sten, suddenly, and his violet eyes meet mine, waiting for an answer. "Thank you. That is an excellent idea."

"You will be a better soldier now that you are whole," he replies.

Ironically, I feel emptier, not whole, when we make camp that evening. The two nights between Ostagar and Redcliffe are filled with dreamless sleep, and I wake each morning feeling heavy, but rested. Sten makes good on his promise and urges me to practice with him each morning before we travel. My right arm becomes sore from the extra weight, but I find myself adapting quickly. Perhaps the qunari are on to something.

We arrive at Redcliffe four days behind our companions to find the castle in chaos; servants packing, horses and carriages being ordered, and the arl, standing in the throne room and frowning down at me.

"Have you gone mad? Ostagar, Evelyn?"

I keep my voice pleasant despite his greeting. "The king's body has been cremated, we have retrieved his armor, and also have a decent idea of where the darkspawn are currently massing, Eamon. It was hardly a frivolous jaunt."

Teagan smiles in relief. "So Cailan has been seen off properly, then. Thank the Maker for such good news." I'll have to remember to tell him about the funeral later, though I should probably avoid specifics on _how_ he was found.

Eamon's brow furrows. "His armor was recovered, you said?"

I nod. "Once it has been cleaned and repaired, I am hoping that Alistair will wear it."

"Bold," the arl replies, stroking his beard. " _Clever_."

"Evil," Alistair mutters, but he rubs my shoulder to show he's joking. Eamon catches the gesture and stares at me sharply. My father used to give me that look; I prepare myself for later discussion.

"But potentially dangerous, given the rumors of the Wardens' involvement with the king's death," Teagan adds.

"Would you rather he continue on in the Templar armor he is wearing now, or the Grey Warden set he wears when we expect serious battle?"

"Point taken, Evie," Teagan sighs. "That would send an... unfortunate message."

"He is Cailan's half-brother," I continue. "The nobles need to see him as such."

"Sure, and then when anyone asks me what he was _like_ , the illusion comes crumbling down," Alistair mutters. "We had such great memories, he and I!" His voice slides into a mocking falsetto. "Would you like to hear about the time he ran past me to the armory, the time he sent me to the Tower of Ishal to guard a bonfire while everyone below us was slaughtered, or the time I pulled his frozen corpse off of a stake and set it on fire?"

Teagan and Eamon stare at him in horror, and I put a hand on his shoulder. "This is not camp, dearest." "I get to let you do most of the talking for us, right?" he murmurs in my ear, and I giggle and ignore the looks that the bann and arl are now giving us _both_.

"Apologies," I manage, drawing my face back into a Cousland smile. "Some of our party members have proven poor influences, but I assure you that we will be on our best behavior in Denerim."

"Evelyn," Eamon smiles, "I am not worried about you. The Cousland sense of humor is well-known in the Landsmeet because of your father, and I doubt that you will offend."

Alistair frowns. "Which is the polite way of saying that you're convinced I will."

"The ride to Denerim will be long enough to provide you with a proper sense of protocol," he replies.

"Oh, good. I can't wait."

Poor Alistair. The trip to Denerim won't be a pleasant one.

We're given one night with a roof over our heads. Alistair and I are lying together in a tangle in my bed, enjoying the privacy granted by locked doors, when he draws me from a semi-conscious stupor with an uncertain voice.

"Evie, I have a stupid question."

I stir and force my voice to work. "That is an excellent start to any conversation."

"I found out when I joined the Wardens that I have a sister. Her name is Goldanna, but you knew that, from the Fade. She's real, but I've never met her."

Ah, yes. Goldanna, and her famous mince pies. "I take it you wish to?"

His voice sounds strained. "Well, she's in Denerim, and since we're on our way there now, we could—I don't know, it just seems         "

"We can visit her, if you would like. Where does she live?"

"The Market District. She's a laundress, apparently."

I consider for a moment. "Sten needs armor that actually fits him, as well as a spare shirt, so we do not need to tell the others why we are going."

He smiles into my hair and pulls me closer. "Thank you, Evie. You're amazing."

"I know."

"You'll come with me, won't you? It sounds silly, but I'm—I don't want to meet her alone."

"Of course." She is his family, after all, and assuming we don't die at the hands of the darkspawn, there might actually be cause to meet her someday.

...And, I'm perversely curious to discover whether or not she can cook. I turn to face him, and we resume drifting in each other's arms.


	15. Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is AO.

On those days when we would ride down to visit Isolde while she was in Denerim, my mother used to refer to Arl Eamon's estate as "pleasant." Personally, I always thought it rather bare, and far too close to the Market District. Granted, when my family was in town, we were always guests at the Royal Palace to allow Cailan and Fergus to spend every waking moment in one another's company, so my basis for comparison was rather skewed. But now, after months in the field, his city home is positively overwhelming.

Even worse, now that we're once again in range of widespread gossip and prying eyes, I've been forced to resume sleeping alone, though the fact that I wasn't given the chance to make this decision on my own is slightly more upsetting. Eamon refused to let Alistair out of his sight for the entirety of our journey into town. Each night the arl took him aside for this or that discussion, and I sparred with Sten until I was too exhausted to be annoyed. By the time we reached the city gates, I'd adjusted to holding a full-sized blade in my right hand, and Sten was having difficulty trouncing me as thoroughly as he was used to.

A surprising few of my companions find the arl's home relaxing: only Wynne and Zevran seem to make themselves comfortable. Sten spends much of his time in my room, avoiding the chatter of the servants, and Morrigan soon joins us in a near panic. I glance up from where I'm reading on my couch and smile at her.

"I wish to go with you into town today."

I close my book and meet her eyes. "If you like, though I must warn you that Sten and Alistair are coming along."

Morrigan sighs and glances toward the corner where Sten is looming. "I understand that Alistair imprinted like a mabari months ago, but why must the qunari come?"

"He needs new armor."

Sten turns and stares down at the battered plate he resolutely strapped to his chest earlier in the morning. "I do."

"Evie? I've been looking for Sten everywhere, but—" Alistair steps into the room and cuts himself off. "And that would be why."

Sten frowns at Alistair. "Why are you not dressed?"

He down at his boots. "Are you blind?"

"You are not wearing armor."

"Forgive me for not wanting to walk around covered in metal in a city with no _shade_ ," he retorts.

Sten glances from Alistair to me. "The other Warden has hers on."

"And if I looked that good in leather, I might be wearing some, too."

Also an unfair observation, since I've preferred armor to plainclothes since I was a little girl, but I know better than to add my voice to their discussion.

"...At least bring your sword and shield."

"Yes, Nan. Will you stop nagging at me?"

And so Sten, Morrigan, Alistair, and I all leave Arl Eamon's already annoyed. Even better, the sound of the crowds in the market gives me a headache almost instantly. Running children, bellowing dwarves, and the shrill voices of noblewomen buying silks snake their way into my skull, and I'm soon glowering like a qunari. Morrigan's eyes are wide; the sheer scale of the city has overwhelmed her into silence.

We travel first to the armorer, and I give him several scales from the high dragon we battled in the mountains. After nearly sobbing in joy, he bounds toward the forge, muttering to himself about _plans_.

"He'll be done this afternoon," his assistant promises, and then hurries us out of the shop.

"Goldanna's house is, uh, right next door," Alistair murmurs in my ear. I nod and turn to Morrigan and Sten.

"Morrigan, as the best haggler among us, it falls to you to resupply us. Here is a list."

She takes it from me, scans it, and then sets off purposefully into the crowd. I turn to the qunari, who is inspecting a nearby child with an unusual degree of suspicion. "Sten?"

"Yes, _kadan_?"

"Make sure no one gets killed."

"...Very well." He follows Morrigan into the throng of people.

"Oh, that's perfect," Alistair sighs. "The two of them aren't exactly known for their people skills, you know."

"Which is what makes them such excellent bargain-hunters," I retort, and then stride toward the door of the nearby house. "Is this her address?"

He makes no move to follow. "Yes.... Do we have to go now?"

"Well, we are here, are we not?"

"Yes, but," he looks around the market before continuing. "Maybe we should get Sten a new shirt first, or a robe for you, or lunch! I'm hungry."

I cross my arms and frown at him. "No, you are _stalling_."

"So what if I am?" he admits. "Can't nervous people stall?"

"Alistair, we came here for you. We could be babysitting Morrigan right now."

"Right, shopping with _Morrigan._ Suddenly, meeting the long-lost sister seems less scary," he relents, and opens the door.

Goldanna's home is comfortable and clean. I've certainly seen many worse during my travels. No one is in sight when we enter, but I hear sounds coming from the kitchen, and smell what must be lunch. It appears that she does indeed cook.

"Uh, hello?" he calls, and the clattering from the kitchen ceases. A woman with shoulder-length, dirty blonde hair steps into the hallway, wiping her hands on her apron.

"You here to get washing done?" She crosses her arms and looks back and forth between us. I wonder that she asked at all, since I'm in full armor and we clearly have no linens with us, but if she's a laundress, then this must be her default greeting.

"No, um. I—I'm looking for Goldanna," Alistair manages.

"That's me," she replies, cocking her head. "Though I'm not sure why you're here if it's not for washing. Never seen you before in my life."

"Well, no, but. That's why I'm here, actually. You're my sister, you see."

"Right," she frowns. "You daft, or just drunk?"

I cross my arms, but Alistair shakes his head at me and keeps talking. "Your mother was a serving girl at Redcliffe Castle, right? Died giving birth to a boy."

"You!" she shouts, and I nearly draw my knives. Months of battle have made me twitchy. "They told me you was dead!"

Alistair blinks. "Why? Why would they do that?"

"Because," she replies, "I knew your father was King Maric! But they told me mom and babe was dead, and gave me a gold before turning me out."

"Th-that's awful," he stammers. I silently agree; it had never occurred to me to wonder what happened to the children of my family's servants when they succumbed to accident or injury. Arl Eamon had kept Alistair, but not Goldanna; suddenly, his actions seem far less altruistic.

"Don't I know it. I've been working hard to get by my whole life, and now I'm doing laundry for any sod who walks in this door so I can feed my five young ones." Her eyes narrow. "And you, you kill my mother, and then get to live your whole life in a palace, I expect."

My sympathy fades. "That is rather presumptuous of you," I interject, and Goldanna turns her attention to me.

"I'm not blind, you tart. I know a noblewoman when I see one, even if she does like to put on armor and pretend to be common. And his blade wasn't cheap, neither. No, his father looked after him right good, and I got nothing!"

Yes, the blade; _Duncan's_ blade, in fact. "You do not know the first thing about how Alistair was raised," I reply, and shake his hand off my arm when he attempts to silence me.

"What makes you think I want to? Waits a score years to get in touch, and now I'm supposed to just bow to him like one of his servants? What's in it for me?"

"He is your _family_."

"I've got a family, and he ain't in it. In fact, he's the worst thing that ever happened to it, so unless he's here to make amends, you two can just be on your way."

"A-amends?" Alistair stutters. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, I see," I smile. "You think that you can just insult the both of us, and then ask for money?"

"Yeah, I do. He's got nieces and nephews not living like they should, and if he cares about _family_ he'd want to set that right." She mimics my intonation and gives me a toothy smile.

His face falls. "W-would fifteen sovereigns...?" Alistair counts out several coins, and holds them toward her.

"I'm not dumb, boy," she sneers. "I know you got more than that."

I snatch the money from Alistair's hand. "You bone-picking harpy. He owes you nothing."

"He killed my mother!"

My fingers are feeling twitchy again; I've also become used to being able to _kill_ the things that make me angry. Readjusting to court life will be difficult after so long in the field, clearly. Perhaps it's for the best that if I don't die in battle, I'll likely be required to retake my teyrnir by force. Instead of drawing my blades, I throw the money on the floor at Goldanna's feet. "There, stoop and scrape for them, then. It would be rude of us to make you feel out of your element."

"Evelyn," Alistair warns.

I whirl to face him. "No. I am not going to let her abuse you like this. She just wants your money."

"But this is her house," he sighs. "You can't talk to her like that in her own house."

"Yes, I can, and I shall." I am, after all, a _tart noblewoman_. "She deserves it."

"Evie, please," he implores. "Let's just go. Sorry to have disturbed you, Goldanna."

She doesn't bother looking up from her place on the floor where she's gathering the gold that I scattered. Alistair almost has to drag me from the house, so angry am I at her behavior.

As soon as we're back in public, he tries hiding behind the mask he wore for all of Lothering. It fools me even less now than it did then. "Well, that wasn't what I expected," he manages. "She was a horrible sort of bitch, wasn't she?"

"If you listen to a word she said, I will never forgive you." I frown up at him. "Honestly, Alistair."

He sighs and steps in close, asking for a hug. "I wanted a family, you know?"

"Yes." And if how terribly I still miss my mother, father, and brother is any indication, he'll always want a family.

"I mean, isn't family supposed to just accept you? I thought that's what they _do,_ " he mutters into my hair.

"Not always," I frown, thinking of my mother's constant insistence that I act more femininely.

"Clearly. I just..." he trails off until I look up at him. "I wanted someone to care about me. Duncan is the only one who ever did."

"But _I_ care about you." I probably shouldn't feel as hurt as I do, but I find myself pulling away regardless. "I lost my family as well, you know."

"Yeah, but at least you _had_ one," he mutters. "The Grey Wardens were the only thing I ever knew even remotely like a family, and that was only for six months."

I think about our nights around the fire, and how fond I've grown of my companions. "So the people we travel with mean nothing to you?"

"They like _you_ , Evie. They're with us because of you. They don't care about me," he mutters.

I pull away from him completely and cross my arms. "Nonsense. Leliana and Wynne do."

"Sure, and then you have your mabari, a pet qunari, an apostate mage, and an assassin who would _lose it_ if something happened to you. Even the dwarf would probably go berserk. And if I died," he adds, "they'd just laugh."

"Fine. Fine." I throw my hands into the air in exasperation and back further away, shaking my head. "You can sulk and feel self-pity all you like, and I can accept that, because this was a horrible experience. But you are _not_ allowed to make me feel awful because I had the chance to become attached to my parents before they were murdered!"

"No, Evie," he begins, but I shake my head and turn to walk away. "Get back here," he commands, reaching for my arm. I shake myself free and keep moving.

"Why, so you can insult us more? Pushing us all away just because someone you barely know is a horrible human being is an excellent plan, and I suggest you continue with it."

"Blast it," he says through gritted teeth, reaching for me again. "Wait. I didn't mean it like that."

I increase my pace and turn the first chance I get, ducking in between two shops and following a narrow alley. Another left turn, and a right, and—excellent, it dead-ends. There are footsteps behind me, and the clink of a familiar scabbard. He's followed me, then. I refuse to turn because I'm angry that he won't leave me be.

"I hate how pretty you are when you're angry. It's unfair," Alistair grumbles. At this I _do_ look over my shoulder at him.

This is an admission I've heard before. Ser Gilmore and other male childhood companions had made a game of angering me once we became teenagers. Cailan had been especially adept at it.

"I suppose," I scowl, using the tone that used to get me in trouble at mother's dinner parties, "that it is the flush of my cheeks, or the fire in my eyes, or perhaps the set of my lips that increases my charm?" I've heard all of those compliments before; young noblemen have a talent for the mundane.

He shakes his head. "It's how you walk. I noticed it first in Orzammar. You get all this energy, and when you're angry at _me_ it almost makes me... afraid of you, actually."

I turn to face him, arms crossed. "I am not sure that is flattering."

"I'm not sure it's all that _safe_ , either," he laughs humorlessly.

This is proving just as insulting as our earlier conversation. "Are you baiting me?"

"I'm not that stupid, Evie."

But apparently he _is_ , because he steps closer, backing me into the wall, and tries to kiss me. After saying those horrible things not two minutes ago! I shove him away by thrusting my forearm into his throat and punch him with my other hand. My fingers go numb from the impact, and he takes a step backward, clutching at his face.

"Maker's _sodding—_ ow," he hisses, glaring at me with his uncovered eye. It appears to be watering; I must have struck him squarely on the cheekbone.

Excellent. Angry man to sad pup eyes in seconds, and I feel instantly terrible. "Andraste's blood," I mutter, prying his hand away from his face to inspect the damage, "I forgot that I was in armor."

"When are you not in armor? I'm going to have a horrible bruise!" He begins feeling gingerly at his face. "And everything burns, too."

I slump against the wall and take a deep breath, feeling suddenly weak as my anger drains from me. Maker's breath, how childish of us both. If we'd been in camp, Wynne would have sent us both to our tents. "What were we fighting about?"

"Something about me saying stupid things because of my idiot sister, and then I tried to be sexy, and you hit me in the face. Did I miss anything?"

"No, other than your cue to _duck_ ," I mutter.

"You're the nimble rogue here, not me. So I'm bruised, and you have to kiss it better." His eyebrow arches, and I find myself laughing at him.

"That is much more effective than 'trying to be sexy.'" It's exceedingly difficult to remain angry at someone so _earnest_. The boys I grew up with fought fire with fire, and had hit me back more than once during such spats. To have my opponent back down so quickly has left me with no solid footing.

And guilt. His poor cheek is red and angry and clashes with his sheepish smile.

I've gotten no better at apologizing during my journey, so I pull him to me by the wrist and do my best to distract him from how badly it must hurt. I can feel the last of our anger fade from us as the kiss lengthens. The energy he mentioned, however, does not abate.

His breath is ragged, which at first I think is from pain, but when he nips at my neck I realize that the source is entirely different. It was foolish of me to believe that either of us would be able to stop at a kiss. I consider telling him no, because we are in the middle of Denerim, where we are both technically wanted criminals, and in plain sight of anyone who feels like wandering in here after us.

It's unsettling how much of a thrill that thought gives me.

He has me back against the wall in seconds, and is actually holding me still, but any time I almost work up the will to protest he finds another nerve to strike at on my neck, and all that escapes my lips are incoherent noises. Curse my armor being built for mobility rather than coverage and leaving so much skin exposed. Alistair is able to reach my neck, collarbone, and upper chest with frustrating ease.

"This is probably another one of my bad ideas, right?" he asks, breathing hard against my neck.

"Yes," I manage.

He laughs and slides a hand up my thigh, and I curse my armor again while his tongue teases my neck. The leather skirt does little to prevent him from pulling my smalls down, or to stop his fingers from—

I'm going to _murder_ Leliana for telling him how to do that. My knees buckle, and I throw my arms around his neck with a quiet sob as his fingers ease deeper within me. His mouth seeks mine and he presses me harder into the wall to steady me as my vision begins to swim. Curse our clothing; I want to feel his skin against mine, but there will be no getting me out of this armor in a timely enough fashion to risk it. Dead end or no, this alley exists for a reason, and I vaguely remember passing several doors along my way here.

Very vaguely.

My hand has slid down to the tie on his trousers before I'm quite aware of what I'm suggesting. Surely I'm not about to encourage the next king of Ferelden to bed—in the vaguest sense of the word _—_ me in the middle of an alley in the capital city. But my nerves are insisting that there's absolutely no other alternative, and he appears to agree, because as I let his trousers fall around his boots, I feel him smile against my neck.

"And just how are you planning on doing this?" His fingers withdraw from me, and I manage to be slightly embarrassed that the lack of sensation makes me whimper.

"Grab my legs," I pant, and with his help wrap my legs around his waist. Thank the Maker for our athletic lives; he supports me with no issue, and though I am sure my thighs will be sore later, that does little to stop me from bearing down on him. I encourage his relieved groan with a series of bites to his neck, and he takes the cue perfectly and begins thrusting.

I feel strangely powerless. Here we are, outdoors, risking a great deal, and all I can manage to do is cling to him and try to keep my moans as quiet as possible. Every muscle of his against mine is tense from effort: his legs are working hard to support us both, arms to help me bear weight and angle me where he wants me, stomach tense to support the weight of my arms around his neck. It's a hot day, and I can feel sweat on the back of my neck, but I quickly decide that I wouldn't stop even if a member of the City Watch were to stride round the corner and attempt to arrest us. I bury my fingers in the short, damp hair on the back of his neck and press my forehead to his, dropping into his next thrust. The next time I open my eyes, I realize that we're both smiling.

Usually I lose all sense of my surroundings during sex, but the sounds of the city around us remain almost as loud as the blood rushing through my veins. Shouts from the crowd in the market drift over the top of the building behind me, and somewhere in the distance I can hear a blacksmith working.

"Anyone could find us here," he growls into my neck. "Some poor sod doing dishes can probably hear you groaning." When I laugh breathlessly, he bites my neck until I whine. "And you love that, don't you?"

"Maker, _yes_."

Maintaining coordination during climax is a skill that I haven't mastered yet, but I'm saved by the wall. Alistair gives me a chance to breathe and lean against the brick after I nearly unbalance us both. As I take deep, burning breaths, a delicious thought occurs to me.

"Let me down," I gasp, and he raises his eyebrow at me.

"You don't think we're done, do you? That would be, uh. Cruel."

I shake my head. "Let me down."

My legs seem unwilling to support me, which is fine, since I fall to my knees in front of Alistair, taking one brief moment to thank the armorer that made my leathers for fashioning such comfortable kneepads. Alistair groans and clutches at my hair as I take him into my mouth with a happy hum. He tastes like me, which I discover I don't mind in the slightest. I brace my hands against his thighs and tease his head with my tongue as my lips slide along his shaft. Soon, he's partly leaned over me, hands pressed to the brick to support himself. I decide that this is a good sign and increase my pace, focusing on relaxing so that I might draw him further into my mouth with each stroke. When I feel him against the back of my throat and don't gag, I allow myself a small smile of triumph.

" _Maker_ ," he gasps, grabbing me by the hair and holding my head still. I close my eyes and focus on my tongue as he guides himself in and out between my lips. I recognize these sounds, and the way that he is breathing, and feel no small amount of pride as he growls and thrusts between my lips one final time. The back of my mouth feels increasingly sticky, and soon my tongue tastes salt and heat. I suck him clean before turning my head to the side and spitting on the alley floor.

"I thought ladies didn't spit," Alistair manages, making a half-hearted attempt to reach for his trouser waistband. I pull them up toward his knees, and he takes them the rest of the way, redressing himself with shaking hands.

"There is a time and place when it is necessary," I reply, wiping at my mouth with my fingers. He helps me to my feet. "Would you put my smalls back where they belong, please?"

"Oh, sorry about that." He drops to one knee and settles them back under my skirt.

"No, you are not." I touch the bruise darkening on his cheek with a sigh when he gazes up at me merrily. "I _am_ sorry about that, though."

"I deserved it. I can be a bastard when I'm upset." He takes me by the hands. "So, shall we go find the other two?"

I groan. "Must we?"

We walk back toward the market square, and I pretend that I don't feel horribly on display as we exit the alley. Morrigan is clearly visible in the crowd, her back to us. Sten looms beside her, arms crossed, staring down at a dwarf with what I doubt is amusement.

"Lose a battle with a door, did we?" Morrigan raises an eyebrow at my lover when she sees us approach.

"Something like that." He glances sideways and grins at me, and it takes all of my restraint not to say something rude.

I change the subject instead. "Sten, have you bought another shirt yet?"

"I am trying," he grumbles, "But no one has one of the proper size."

I glance at the dwarf. "Are you perhaps looking at the wrong vendor?"

The merchant sighs. "That's what I've been saying, my lady. There's a human just across the way who works with qunari, but this one won't go talk to him."

Sten shakes his head. "I will not give money to a man who works with deserters."

"Well, since it is my money, I doubt that you will have a problem when I do it for you. Good day, ser dwarf. I am sorry that they have harassed you."

We divvy up the packages after picking up Sten's armor, then plunge back into the crowd. Days like this make me miss Highever. My arms are protesting the weight of the packages as I weave my way through the crowd while attempting to not look longingly at the nobles whose servants are carrying their purchases for them. Morrigan, of course, catches my gaze, and spends the rest of our errands trying to convince me to turn Alistair into the package-boy.

We're stopped on our way by a man in heavy armor who turns out to be a sergeant in the City Watch. He introduces himself as Kylon, and admits to knowing who we are. Sten bristles instantly, and it takes all my diplomacy to keep the situation from devolving quickly.

"I promise we have no intention of causing trouble," I tell him, and to my surprise he nods.

"I believe you. Only idiots believe the rumors about you Wardens. I mostly wanted to warn you that the Market District is less than safe right now thanks to upset folk rubbing shoulders with refugees. My boys are useless, so you're on your own if someone else causes trouble."

Alistair frowned. "Sounds like _you_ need help, not us."

Maker's breath. I need to tell him to stop giving them ideas. But Sergeant Kylon mentions _pay_ , and so I agree to run an errand for him. When Alistair realizes we're at a brothel, he becomes less enamored with the idea of helping the sergeant further, but the pay is enough to have me promise to do one more task once we clear mercenaries out of the Pearl. Sten's armor had _not_ been cheap.

By the time we return to the estate, I'm the only person still on speaking terms with everyone else. Such is the cycle of my days. Though one glance at my dog makes me wonder if that will be a rather short- lived fact. Leliana and Wynne are in the courtyard with a wash bucket and Absolon, who is—

Andraste's song. I pinch at the bridge of my nose and force my voice to remain level. "Wynne, why is Absolon violet?"

She turns to me with a pleased smile. "He looks and smells lovely, doesn't he?"

My mabari whines at me, and I take a deep breath. My wardog is purple. Purple, and _white_ , because of the kaddis patterns. He looks like one of the sweeties Nan would make me and Fergus when we were good for our lessons.

"I told her not to do it," Leliana giggles.

I stare at Wynne. "Answer my question, please."

"You told me that he could have a bath."

I don't have time for this. "That," I point, "was not caused by _bathing_. He is a mabari, not an Orlesian lapdog. Change him back."

Wynne frowns at me. "Just because he's a wardog doesn't mean that he can't be pretty."

"He hates it." Absolon whines in agreement and stares at her plaintively.

She chuckles. "Oh, he just hates baths."

" _I_ hate it. Change him back by the time I have returned from my next errand, or I am using your books for kindling."

Zevran turns from where he has been practicing his archery. "Errand? You're not done?"

I shake my head, though I _would_ have been if Sergeant Kylon hadn't bribed me to do his job for him. "No, actually. You and I have some business at the Gnawed Noble Tavern. Alistair needs to stay here with Wynne and get his face looked at."

My companions stare at me in confusion, and I use the opportunity to parcel out our new equipment. Alistair watches Sten collect his packages with a scowl that is augmented by the massive bruise on his face. "Why does _he_ get the new armor?"

"Because he," I indicate Sten for emphasis, "is more imposing than you will ever be, and so we need to make sure that he catches the eye." I refrain from mentioning our rather macabre acquisition of Cailan's armor.

The qunari chooses this moment to try a new gauntlet on beside me, twisting and flexing his hand to test the fit. His armored fist is nearly as large as my head. "Point taken," Alistair relents.

"So you want Sten to be pretty, but not Absolon?" Wynne frowns.

"No, I want Sten to be sheathed in enough dragonscale to make him impervious to the blades of our foes. You making Absolon _pretty_ has done nothing to improve our chances in battle."

"Actually," Zevran muses, "he might serve as an excellent distraction. Can you imagine being charged by a snarling, lavender hound?"

Wynne smiles at him. "Thank you, Zevran."

When I stare at him, mouth slightly open in shock, he grins at me. "All I am saying is try him out. See what happens, no? Stranger things have worked for me in the past."

"Fine," I sigh. "But Zev, if you make one comment about my dog while we are in town tonight, I will turn you in to the Crows."

"If you could find them!"

"As I understand it, they are still looking for _me_."

"Well, they certainly are now! Talking about the Crows summons them, you know. But... " He looks up at me with a furrowed brow. "I hate to ask, but am I correct in assuming that you're _not_ actually planning on turning me in?"

I snort. "If they attack you, Zev, I will kill them. Make no mistake about that."

"Then perhaps it is good that Alistair is not coming with us. He might let me die."

"Hey!" My lover scowls at him, and the elf's smile returns in full. Experience tells me that Zevran is two sentences from reminding Alistair that he has seen me naked, and so I take the opportunity to herd my party back to town. Absolon follows me reluctantly, whining occasionally at his paws. I scratch him behind the ears as we walk and promise him that I'll find him an ox bone for his troubles, and that in the meantime he can take his rage out on some thugs. This does little to improve his spirits.

I'd avoided the Gnawed Noble Tavern earlier for one reason: there would be _far_ too many people inside that would recognize me. Thankfully, the clientèle is too terrified by Sten's demeanor, insulted by Zevran's presence, and confused by Absolon's appearance to pay me any mind at all. I walk everyone rapidly toward the back and enter the side room filled with mercenaries. Judging by the smell, they came directly in from the field and did their best to bathe in the ale they bought in celebration. Small wonder the bartender complained.

"Oi, you come to keep us company?" slurs one of the men.

Zevran crosses his arms and stands to my right, and Sten looms directly behind me. I can feel him glowering over the top of my head.

"No. In fact, I have come to ask you to leave."

"You can't just—who do you think you are, tart?"

My eyes dart to the men on either side of him. So far, no hands near their weapons. "Someone better at fighting than you and your drunken friends?" When he bristles, I sigh. "Look. The nobles are getting angry. The nobles pay your contracts. Go somewhere less stuffy and have a little _fun_."

The men stare at each other for a moment, then glance from my knives to Sten. "Right, leaving then. Thanks. We'll be good."

"Unlikely," Sten mutters, and I stifle a smile.

But then of course the sergeant wants us to go patrol the back alleys for him. I have half a mind to tell him to grow a spine and do it himself, but Zevran and Wynne are running out of the reagents they need for poisons and poultices. Sten, of course, grumbles at my decision, but helps me purge the gangs regardless.

When we turn down a strangely deserted alleyway, Zevran grabs me by the arm and stares at a crow hopping nearby.

"Tsk, my Warden," he murmurs. "I know I have told you that talking about the Crows summons them. You shouldn't have threatened to turn me in earlier."

Wonderful. "Is this an ambush, then?"

"Most assuredly."

"Excellent."

We round the corner, and there is indeed someone waiting at the top of the stairs. My eyes flick to Zevran, and I see recognition. The two of them know one another, then. That's less than ideal. I trust him, but if this is an old friend that will not make the battle easy.

Zevran sighs up at the Crow blocking our path. "Tell me, Taliesin, did they send you, or did you volunteer?"

"I volunteered, of course. When I heard that the great Zevran had gone rogue, I—" He glances at Absolon, and then stops cold. "I...what is _that_?"

My hound growls and flattens his poor lavender ears against his head. "He is a mabari," I explain as though I'm speaking to a small child. "They are Fereldan hounds trained to kill on command. Quite useful."

"Yes, I know about this country's stupid love of dogs," he frowns. "Why is he _that_ color?"

At this, Absolon barks twice at Taliesin, baring his teeth pointedly. "Careful. They understand the common tongue."

Taliesin pinches the bridge of his nose. "Of course they do." A deep breath, and then he continues with his original thought. "Look, Zev, just come back with me. Everyone makes mistakes. We'll make up a story."

The man must be insane. "Of course, I would need to be dead for that to work."

He sighs. "So glad you could join our conversation."

Absolon growls again, and I cross my arms. "I rather think it concerns me. Am I wrong?"

"Ah, my Warden," Zevran grins. "Don't worry. I'm _not_ going to let him kill you." His frown fades, and he glances at my knives. "Or _you're_ not, more precisely, because I doubt you'll need help killing him."

"You always had a soft spot for the pretty hits," my intended assassin grumbles.

"Ah, and you don't know the half of it. She is not the _only_ pretty person I travel with nowadays."

Sten puts a hand on my shoulder. " _Parshaara!_ Why are we still talking?"

He has a point. "I am not a patient woman, Taliesin. If you're going to try to kill us, I suggest you do it now."

At these words, several Crows step out of the shadow of a nearby building and flank their leader. "Zevran, don't be a fool," Taliesin pleads. "You're outnumbered."

Zev whirls and buries his knives in a shadow, which bleeds and crumples to the ground. "That will be easy enough to fix."

Taliesin isn't much more difficult to kill: he focuses on me, and so is unprepared for Absolon to launch at his throat, pinning him to the ground and tearing out his windpipe while I aid Sten with the other assassins that appear as soon as the fight begins.

"You know," I say to Zevran, wiping at my knives, "the nice thing about you Antivans and Orlesians is that you spend so much time complaining about how we love dogs in this country that you never remember why we _have_ them." He may have spoken without an accent, but a _true_ Fereldan would have gone for the mabari first.

"Yes, and the fact that he is a pastel purple had nothing to do with it?" Zevran asks.

"Nonsense," I scoff. "You heard him call our love of dogs stupid."

"It is," Sten assures me. "Your entire country smells of wet dog. There are more dogs than there are people." When Absolon whines at him, he elaborates. "I like your kind. You are strong warriors. I just do not appreciate the way that you smell."

Zevran ignores them both. "You know, this might mean that I am finally free of the Crows! They will assume I died with Taliesin. Of course, they will probably try to kill you yet again." He meets my eyes. "Then they would find me still alive. That is... not ideal."

"You have a point." I sheath my knives and begin rifling through Taliesin's clothes. He has little pocket money, though my previous conversations with Zevran should have prepared me for this fact. I want to look up at him, but I'm worried that if I do he'll tell me that he no longer wishes to travel with us. Even Alistair seems to have forgiven him for trying to kill us; he is integrated into the group now, and we will not function as well without his lecherous commentary.

"Regardless," he continues at last, "I find myself reluctant to leave."

"Good. I would miss you." I grin as I glance at him, but it fades once I see the odd look in his eyes.

"So we _are_ friends, then? Is this what friends do, risking their lives for one another stupidly and remaining together even though it drastically reduces each of their lifespans?"

I nod. "Actually, yes, though the hope is friends will be able to get each other through the life- threatening situations."

He smiles and shrugs, and is instantly the Zevran I'm used to. "Ah, well. I can think of nowhere else to go, in any case, so why not try my luck with the archdemon?"

"A wise decision." I pair my words with a relieved smile and trust that he'll understand what I really mean. "Now get moving before someone else tries to kill us."

Zevran forces me to admit as we leave town that my purple mabari distracts everyone from the blood spatters on Sten's armor. Regardless of his usefulness in this situation, Wynne _will_ be changing him back. She grudgingly agrees to once we return, and I update everyone on what happened in town while Absolon excuses himself to roll in the courtyard, undoing her bath, as well.

We sit around a long table in Eamon's estate, and I sit back and inspect my companions as they discuss what our next move should be. A few months ago, I didn't believe we could stop the Blight. Now, I'm almost convinced that we can. But first, we'll need to deal with Loghain.


	16. Howe's Tricks

Morrigan finds me in my rooms before supper, shutting the door behind her and looking about in paranoia.

"Could I sleep in here tonight?" she asks, sitting across from me with a tired sigh.

"I suppose," I agree, and then ask despite my better judgment, "Not getting along with Wynne and Leliana again?"

She shakes her head. "That, and 'tis much less likely the bann will seek me out if I'm with you."

Poor Teagan. "Was his performance that terrible?"

"Indeed not. I simply have no desire for an encore." A servant walks in with fresh linens for my bed, and Morrigan eyes her warily. "If only I could find a place where _they_ would not come."

"Why?"

"They keep asking me if I would like a change of clothes! Every one of them! I am freshly bathed and my robes are clean. I cannot imagine what offends them so." Morrigan crosses her arms over the front of her ridiculous robes, and I hear Sten make a disgusted noise behind us.

"Your attire is inappropriate, mage. The nobles have no desire to stare at your breasts."

Morrigan loses her poise for only a second. "They mind only as much as _you_ do," she scoffs, leaning back against the couch and revealing the extent of skin that her clothing cleverly leaves exposed.

"They mind _exactly_ as much as I do," he frowns, and returns to gazing at the wall.

"Either way," she says to me, "if another servant offers me a shirt, I shall set this house on fire."

And thus dies my hope of Morrigan wearing sensible clothes while we're in town.

"Nonsense," I laugh. "You know no fire spells." I have thanked the Maker for that fact on multiple occasions during our travels.

She opens a large book that she brought in with her, and my stomach sinks as I realize it's a grimoire. "I have been given adequate cause to learn."

I instantly regret letting her out of my sight in the market yesterday. "...Yes, I think it best for you to stay with me tonight," I sigh, and watch her settle happily into the couch.

"Assuming the qunari has no objections? He seems quite comfortable here." Her eyes flick to the back of Sten's head, and his shoulders stiffen. Andraste's gown, I hope the servants have been assuming that he's my bodyguard. I've been out of court for far too long if the hedge witch is the one who thinks of these things first.

I rise and turn before he has a chance to reply. "Sten, shall we go practice?"

"Please." He leaves the room without another look at Morrigan.

"'Tis a mystery how you have the patience to deal with him," she calls after me.

Sten and I practice for almost an hour, drawing gawkers through the gates, before another member of the household comes to seek us out. I was hoping for Alistair, but it is Teagan who enters the courtyard to watch us spar.

"You have gotten scary, Evie," he calls, and we pause to breathe and speak. Sten takes several steps away, but remains close; by now, all of my companions have heard why Zevran drew on the bann in my bedroom.

"A necessity of the job, I fear." I sheath my blades and approach him.

"I was about to ask to try my hand, but I fear we are no longer on the same level." He grins and brushes his braid behind his ear.

"What? Teagan, you _ass_!" When he stares at me, I put my hands on my hips. "You spent a decade knocking me around various courtyards, and now that I can finally hold my own you bow out?"

He laughs at me; for a moment we are both ten years younger, and I have to work to keep myself from pouting. "Are you calling me unfair?"

"Yes, I am."

The bann frowns, and then glances at one of the gate guards. "You there! Loan me your sword."

The grin I give him is positively feral as we face off, and I have him disarmed within three moves. Sten nods approvingly as I stand over Teagan and lower my blades. "That felt good."

"Ow. No," he replies, climbing to his feet. "Suddenly I see why Cailan and I used to make you so angry."

"I doubt that," I retort. "Do you yield?"

"Yes. Might I point out that only one of us is wearing armor?"

"That is not an excuse," Sten interjects. "A true soldier can win in nothing at all." Thankfully, he doesn't elaborate, and so Teagan is spared the imagery of me fighting darkspawn naked.

"Well, I am obviously not a true soldier," Teagan smiles, brushing dust from his his trousers and returning the blade to the amused gate guard. "But that is news to no one. Eamon and I were always the strategists. It is rare to find someone who excels at both, but the Couslands always have."

I shake my head. "Flatterer."

"Well, considering my recent behavior, I think it is time," he replies, suddenly sober. "I assume by the cold demeanor of your escort that he is aware of my earlier... misstep?"

Sten scowls. "I am."

"Then I may speak frankly." His blue eyes meet mine, and he sinks to his knees in front of me. "Evie, I am so sorry. The past two months have been excruciating. I feel like I have lost one of my favorite childhood friends. And since the other two are dead, this is especially painful to me."

I frown and urge him to his feet. "So you have moved past your silly 'marrying me' phase?"

He nods. "Alistair loves you, and Ferelden needs you, and blast it, Evie, I just want you to be happy. I was— alone. Cailan, and your family, and my brother, and Connor...." He shakes his head. "I wanted someone familiar to be close to me. But that is no excuse for stupidity. _You_ managed."

I laugh and think of my many fights with Duncan. "I had my share of stupidity, Teagan. You were simply reunited with me after I had returned to my senses."

"But we are—all is forgiven, then?"

I nod. "You did worse to me when we were children, in any case."

"What!"

"Do you not remember locking me in a kennel and then telling Nan that I had run away?"

He gestures toward the door, indicating that we should return inside. "It is a wonder none of us were beaten as children."

I give him a quick hug. "Someday I will forgive you for that, by the way."

"Will it help if I tell you that the cook has prepared all of your favorites for dinner?" He grins at me, and I shove him in the shoulder just hard enough to send him into the door frame.

"Hardly," I chuckle. "You have the same taste in food as I." Sten follows after me, and I silently direct him to come with us to the dining room.

"Only because of all those visits with your family. Mother used to lament that you Couslands spoiled my palate."

The last of my reservations fade: the Teagan that I knew as a girl is back, and it feels wonderful to have an old friend to reminisce with. "And _my_ mother used to lament that the three of you turned me into a boy."

Eamon glances up from his seat in the dining room as we join the rest of the group. "Isolde has said much the same, though what she finds odd about your behavior is typical to all Fereldan women. One day you should tell me what you did to upset her so, Evelyn."

I shake my head. "That is hardly dinner conversation."

"I feared as much," he sighs, and then allows us to move on.

Once dinner is over, Morrigan and I return to my room and gratefully climb into the bed. I'm prepared for glib commentary over my new nightclothes, and she surprises me by only complimenting the color. I ask the servants to stoke the fire, and then shut my eyes and let the crackling lull me to sleep as I have become accustomed.

 

~*-*~

 

Just as I'm drifting, I hear a knock at the door.

"Let me know if 'twould help to set them on fire," Morrigan mumbles as I climb regretfully out of bed.

"Go back to sleep," I reply, and answer the door.

There's an elf in the hallway. "I'm sorry your ladyship, but the bann and the arl would like to speak to you."

"So late?"

She nods. "A letter just arrived," she adds quietly. "I suspect it's about that."

I sigh and pull my new robe over my nightgown, using the logic that they're both used to seeing me in armor, which is less modest than my current outfit, to justify the informality. Teagan and Eamon are kind enough not to comment when I arrive in his study. Again, Alistair is nowhere in sight; we hadn't even been allowed to sit together at dinner.

"Might we make this quick? I was asleep," I groan, falling into a chair beside Teagan and staring at Eamon over his desk.

"My brother and I have been talking, and I realized that our problem would be more easily solved by speaking with you directly." The arl rubs at his neck; we are about to discuss my relationship with Alistair. "Evelyn, we—I," he amends, noting Teagan's expression, "am concerned about you and Alistair."

I pretend that this comes as a surprise. "What is wrong, Eamon?"

"I... need to know the nature of your relationship, to prevent potential scandal during the Landsmeet."

I meet his eyes tiredly. "I intend to marry him. May I return to my bedroom now?"

Eamon rubs at his beard. "You do realize that this would make you queen?" When I narrow my eyes, he continues. "Have you considered how the other nobles will see this union?"

"I am a Cousland, Eamon. They will see a respected and competent clan allying itself with your bastard king. If anything, I am giving him a stronger foothold."

"And if they see the last two Wardens in Ferelden gaining power?"

"Then they will know that their lands will be safe from the darkspawn," I reply.

"Has it occurred to you that the country already has a queen?"

I cross my arms. "And, as far as we can tell, she is content to allow her father to murder her husband and then take the throne in her stead. So far I see no problem."

Eamon chuckles. "Very well. Clearly you have considered this. So I suppose all that is left for me to do is warn you that Arl Howe is in the city."

My smug smile fades into a shiver. "The Blight is my priority. He will meet justice eventually." Duncan would be proud of me, but it feels as though my blood is boiling all the same.

"That is... reassuring to hear."

"And Evie," Teagan interjects, "Loghain is coming to speak with us tomorrow."

I grit my teeth. "I have already promised to leave his fate to the Landsmeet as long as he is regent. I will do nothing that endangers the Grey Wardens."

"That is all I needed to know," Eamon replies. "Go back to bed, child."

As though I shall be able to, with news such as that. Instead, Teagan and I take Absolon for a walk and spend time reminiscing about Cailan. While we talk, I realize that it must be odd for Teagan to lose a nephew who he also grew up calling a friend. Fergus was the oldest, then Teagan, then Cailan, and last me. We'd only all begun getting along six years or so ago, and then Fergus and Cailan got _married_ , and Teagan and I no longer had friends to visit, because I certainly couldn't see him at Rainesfere without my brother along. Likewise, Teagan couldn't shirk his duties to his bannorn to visit either us or the king.

We spend a moment lamenting that it's lonely being a young adult noble before he coerces me to tell him the details of what happened with the kennel. Insulting that he doesn't remember; I was in that accursed cage for three hours, which is an eternity when one is nine. I even remember the fight that started it, much to Teagan's glee. Natually, Zevran and Leliana appear just as I say, "and _that_ was when you closed the cage and locked me in."

The elf smiles widely, but knows better than to say anything untoward in front of Teagan. "Good evening," he offers instead, and Leliana snatches something from his hand, hiding it behind her back before I can observe it clearly.

I raise an eyebrow at them both. "I thought that the two of you were in bed."

"No," the bard giggles, "we went on a walk. To the tavern."

"And drank most of the wine," I observe.

"We brought a bottle back for you!" she replies, and offers me what was hidden behind her back—no, what she hid behind her back had been much smaller; Leliana appears to be adept at sleight-of-hand. I smile regardless and thank them for the gift.

They stumble off together, and I frown at the wine in my hand. "Teagan, I need to go speak with them. They were far too pleasant, and that means trouble."

"Best of luck, Evie," he laughs. "Absolon, would you like to go find a snack with me in the kitchens?"

The mabari barks happily and follows him away, leaving me to track down my rogues. Surprisingly, I find them each abed in their own rooms. Zevran is already asleep, and I'm reluctant to wake him due to his proximity to Sten. The girls are still awake, but when I ask Leliana what they were up to, she simply giggles and says, "You'll yell if we tell you!"

Fuming, my wine and I return to my room, where I read until it's light enough to justify risking rousing Morrigan with servants coming to draw a bath for me. She refrains from setting anyone on fire, and instead joins me in the large square, stone tub. After bathing together so many times in rivers and streams, it doesn't occur to me that this might seem strange until one of the elves comes in with extra towels and blanches.

"These servants are a flighty lot," she grumbles, and I chuckle despite myself. "I need to warn you that Loghain will be here today. You are not to hurt him."

"Why? He is responsible for the loss of all your friends, is he not?"

"He is." A pause to rinse my hair. "But now is not the time for revenge."

"Will a better opportunity than this present itself? Shall he be packaged and delivered by courier later?"

"Killing him now would be political suicide," I explain. "It would ruin our cause."

"Politics are useless," she frowns.

"Not to me," I reply. "Stay out of the main hall until he has come and gone."

Her frown deepens as she watches me step out of the bath. "Why, am I not to be trusted?"

"I believe that you will listen to me," I say. "I also believe that if he sees you, he will inform the Templars."

"Ah." Her eyes meet mine, and she looks surprisingly vulnerable. "...Thank you."

I shake my head. "I like you, Morrigan."

"Your beloved does not, however." She wraps herself in a towel and begins wringing at her hair.

"And he is also not in charge." I frown at the gowns that were delivered to me this morning. There is not much of a choice to make; all save one of them are _blue_. I button myself into the green-and-white one and feel instantly smothered by the high neck and long sleeves. I lace the girdle myself, which appears to impress my companion, and attempt to breathe. Curse Orlais for its lingering influence on Fereldan fashions.

Morrigan has redressed, and moves to stand beside me. "I don't understand why everyone disapproves of my robes so," she observes. "That dress calls far more attention to your chest."

I inhale deeply and stare into the mirror in horror. "I agree." The girdle matches the collar, but the chest is an entirely different color and pattern, which creates the illusion of size. Putting Morrigan in a gown such as this would make her seem overly top-heavy. No wonder that my sister-in-law despised this style, in retrospect.

When I meet the others for breakfast I find that Alistair was allowed to wear his armor rather than fancy clothing, and spend the morning fuming after I'm told that they put me in the gown to "ensure that I do not attack Loghain."

That, and I'm more expendable than Maric's bastard; I need to remember that for Eamon, the Blight is _secondary_ to Ferelden's unity. To him, Alistair is more king than Grey Warden, but until the archdemon is dead, that can't be so.

Before we proceed to the main hall to await Loghain's arrival, I return to my suite and belt my knives rather conspicuously to my back. The others follow my example and add their weapons to their plainclothes, as well. When Eamon sees this, he pinches at the bridge of his nose, but wisely refrains from commenting. I send Zevran off to the library in case he is recognized and settle in to wait with Leliana, Alistair, and Sten.

I was prepared to meet Loghain. I was even prepared to come across Howe somewhere in town. What I was _not_ prepared for was for them to both come waltzing in to the main hall together. Alistair glances at me, face white, and Sten places a hand on my shoulder in warning as we rise to greet them.

 

_Patience can be a virtue in the right setting, pup. In battle, it can be the difference between an arrow's hit and a miss_. _But in politics, patience is_ always _a virtue, no matter what your mother says_.

 

I repeat the words in my head like a chant, but my father never had to meet the eyes of the murderer of his family and first lover. He never had to listen to the man who betrayed our country accuse others of the betrayal. I manage to stay my hands, but have less success with my mouth.

"You were never an accomplished liar, Loghain. Perhaps you should have developed a talent for it before becoming a mass-murderer."

Loghain looks at me with practiced disinterest. As though he didn't stand across from me at Ostagar and plan the demise of my order. As though he didn't send a Crow to kill me. "And who is this, Eamon, another bastard you've dressed up as nobility?"

I step forward before the arl has the chance to speak. "Surely you have not forgotten me. I am Evelyn Cousland, now Teyrna of Highever after the murder of my parents."

His expression does not falter. "Teyrna? That is quite a claim, especially to be made in front of Teyrn Howe of Highever."

... _Teyrn_ Howe? No. The _arl_ sees my shock and adds his voice to the conversation. "The Couslands are all dead." Less than a year ago, this man was attempting to marry me off to one of his sons, and now he has apparently never seen me in his life. But before I can reply, he causes my anger to boil over: "I exposed Teyrn Cousland's role in a plot against King Cailan."

Sten steps close behind me, glowering over my head at Howe as I continue speaking. "Did you perhaps confuse your teryrns?"

An armored woman to Loghain's right snaps at me. "Show some respect to the regent!"

"No," I reply. "Howe killed my family and stole my title, and I have no respect to give for the man who allowed it."

"What you are saying is treason!"

"And what your regent has done is worse than treason," I retort. When she gasps, I sneer. "If that offends your sensibilities, it is no wonder that your force fled and left us alone at Ostagar!"

"Evelyn," Eamon warns.

"Ser Cauthrien," Loghain begins, but she continues speaking.

"Arl, I suggest you restrain your pup before she keeps nipping where she shouldn't."

_Pup_ , is it? That cuts in a way that she'll never imagine. But I could have restrained myself had the corner of Howe's mouth not twitched. He knows. He remembers. And the bastard thinks that he's getting away with it.

I almost have my weapons in my hands before Teagan blocks me. "Evie, no! Now is hardly the time."

"He killed my father!" I shriek, struggling to move past him and silence the blood pounding in my ears. "He killed my mother! He killed my friends!"

"Sten, get her out of here!" Alistair orders, and to my surprise the qunari obeys. He takes me by the upper arms and pulls, bringing me effortlessly off of my feet. Instinct kicks in and I aim a heel at his kneecap. When he curses and loses his grip on an arm, I nearly get my blades in my hands again. But this time his hands take me by the wrists and he walks me backward out of the hall. I struggle all the while, cursing each step that increases the distance between me and Howe, but it does little to slow our progress. Maker's breath, has he been holding back every time we sparred?

"Let me go!" I order, but he ignores me, and when I kick at him again he tightens his grip until my eyes water. While I am suitably distracted, he presses my stomach into a nearby wall, pulling my arms high above my head and leaving me completely immobilized.

"Sten! He killed my family!"

"Now is not the time for vengeance," he replies.

"My father called him a friend, and he _gutted_ him." I tell myself that my voice cracks because of how tightly he has me by the wrists.

"Think of the Blight."

At those words, all of the anger drains from me, and I slump against the stone wall. All that talk to Alistair about choosing the archdemon over me, and yet I almost allow my desire for vengeance to ruin all of our plans. Had Alistair not told Sten to leave with me, Howe would be dead, yes... and I'd be in a prison somewhere while the darkspawn continued advancing. I had been seconds from failing us all.

Sten releases my wrists when he feels the fight drain from my muscles, but rests his palms on either side of me against the wall, which effectively leaves me trapped. I press my cheek into the stone and take several deep breaths.

"Do not let your rage cage you as it caged me, _kadan_ ," he adds, and to my shame I start to cry. Blast, but this wall is frigid. I put my back to it and nearly plow into Sten's chest as I turn, but he still doesn't lower his arms because he understands. I doubt very much that Sten cries, or seeks comfort when he's upset. But he knows that my anger might return, and so he keeps me against the wall.

I'm cold, and emotionally exhausted; I press myself against his chest and let myself cry. He remains still for several minutes. Only when I'm wishing that _anyone_ else had pulled me from the chamber— even Eamon would have hugged me, for Andraste's sake—does his right arm leave the wall and wrap around my upper back. I throw mine around his stomach and keep crying, and eventually his left hand presses into the small of my back. I expect that he will shove me away at the first chance, but to my surprise he voluntarily rests his chin on top of my head and makes the hug real.

When he speaks again, I can feel his voice in his chest. "We are all working to stop the Blight. Allowing you to fail would be a failure for us all. I woke alone, and so faltered, but you will not make the same mistake."

I pull away just enough to look up at him. I have to tilt my head back at an extreme angle to meet his gaze, which makes me feel like a very small child. "How did you feel when your brothers died?"

His violet eyes inspect my face for several seconds before he responds. "When I came to, before I learned that _Asala_ was lost, I felt empty. And then when I realized that I was alone with no way to go home, I felt like a rabid animal."

"...I understand."

He nods, and is about to continue when we both notice Zevran standing a few feet away and staring at my tear-streaked face with interest. Sten drops his arms immediately and frowns down at me. "You need rest, _kadan._ Is the witch still in your room?"

Zevran shakes his head. "She is reading in the library."

"Then you may sleep in peace."

"I suppose now is not the time to ask what happened in my absence?"

"No," he tells Zevran, and guides me to my room by the shoulders. I follow him meekly, because nothing sounds better than sheets and a pillow in the present moment.

Sten opens the door for me, then stands in the hall after I enter. "Do you need a servant? Is that a dress you can get out of alone?" When I laugh at him, he scowls. "Human noble clothing is ridiculous. It would not surprise me."

"Thank you, Sten. I will be fine."

"I will be in the hall."

I shake my head. "Really, I will be fine. You do not need to baby-sit me."

"I am making sure that you do not sneak out and kill him on the road."

Of course. How silly of me. "A fair point," I concede, "but I am far too tired to attempt it."

"...Very well." He closes the door, and I listen for a moment and hear him settling down in the hall. So he _isn't_ leaving, then. I'm unsure whether to be flattered or insulted.

As soon as I undress and am in bed, I conclude that it doesn't matter. First I'll sleep, and then find a way to undo the damage I just created. At least with the qunari at the door, Morrigan won't interrupt my nap. Perhaps I'll be able to risk sleeping without the sodding nightgown, as well.


	17. Take the Money and Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is AO.

It's disconcerting to fall asleep alone and wake in someone's arms. Disconcerting, but relaxing; Alistair is in bed with me, and I recognize his scent before I open my eyes.

"Does Eamon know where you are?" He starts at my voice, then runs a hand through my hair.

"No," he grumbles. "And let's keep it that way. Sten showed up in the study fifteen minutes ago and told me I was needed on Grey Warden business, then marched me out without another word."

I laugh and stretch sleepily, pressing myself more fully against him. "How kind of him."

"I think Eamon's scared of him." He smiles happily at the idea before adding, "Though Sten didn't exactly strike me as the subtle _type_ , you know?"

I think for a moment. "He was probably being honest. We are both Grey Wardens, and making sure I am emotionally sound enough to not jeopardize our mission is certainly our business."

"Huh. Qunari." He nuzzles into my neck. "So, I can't help but notice that you're naked under there. Can't break the old habit, pup?"

"I was too tired to get into the blasted nightgown, though if my prince requires it, I can certainly change."

"No," he orders, and the nuzzling becomes nibbling. "I feel like I haven't seen you in weeks," he adds, pulling the bedclothes down around my waist with a flourish, "and I'm rather enjoying the view."

"Cold!" I lament.

He solves this new problem by straddling me and covering my exposed skin with his. I encourage this with a kiss that neither of us bother to pretend is chaste; he's panting, and I have my fingers buried in his hair, pressing him close and encouraging his tongue to seek mine. Alistair makes a small, happy noise and breaks the kiss just long enough to pull his shirt over his head. Before he can regain the lead, I run my tongue along his neck and shoulders and reacquaint my hands with the feel of his biceps.

Alistair leans back just enough to pull away and massages at my breasts, flicking at my nipples with his thumbs until I'm groaning and arching into him.

"I love it when you do that," he grins. My indignant frown is met with another kiss, and the resultant wash of heat that suffuses my body convinces my nerves that I'm no longer chilly.

"You," I gasp, "are making it very difficult to be quiet."

He laughs. "We're usually in a tent, and _now_ you want to be quiet?"

"Is Sten in the hall?" When he nods, I continue: "I would like to give him a reprieve."

"That sounds like a challenge," Alistair replies, and moves his mouth to my neck and chest.

Deliciously infuriating. I clench my teeth and refuse to make a sound, which only encourages him. By this point he knows exactly where to lick to elicit noise: the underside of my breasts, or a particular spot on my hip, which also responds to pressure—

His thumb presses against it, and I arch into him, but still manage to remain silent.

"Hmmm," he muses. "What about this?" His teeth graze a path down my stomach, meandering toward the spot on my hip so that he can tease it with pressure _and_ heat. This makes it far more difficult to keep quiet, but thankfully I inherited my mother's stubbornness, and so I manage with the help of a great deal of undignified hip twitching.

"You're asking for it, Evie," he grins, and I feel his hand slide up my inner thigh. My legs part quite against my will, and he presses his advantage and slides further down between them. Now his hands and tongue can _both_ tease at my skin, and once my hips begin bucking in earnest, he slides two of his fingers within me.

"Try to stay quiet now."

It takes a hand to my mouth and a great deal of panting, but I do. Alistair is breathing heavily, eyes half-closed, watching me writhe beneath him, but though I know what wonderful expressions he would make if he could hear my voice, I bite at my lower lip. This does nothing to discourage him, and soon it takes all of my focus to remain silent. I'm so tense that I'm tightening around his fingers, and when he feels this, he licks long, slow trails along my inner thighs.

I realize that I've buried my fingers in his hair and arched into his face when his tongue flicks experimentally against my clit. When I gasp his name in shock, he laughs and begins licking in earnest. Even though he doesn't bother rubbing it in, I still feel ashamed at losing my little game.

For a few seconds, at least. As his actions gain more certainty, my mind becomes significantly hazier, and I give up and allow myself to enjoy the pleasure radiating through my body. Alistair seems to be enjoying himself; when I finally begin whimpering and moaning, I can feel him smile after various sounds. Between his fingers and his tongue, I'm certainly giving him plenty to be amused by. And I can tell that he has no intention of doing more than teasing me.

I try to pull him upward, to tell him that I wish to return the favor, but he shoves me back against the bed and continues. When I pull myself to my elbows again, he pushes me down with more force, and this time I hear a slightly muffled "No."

Now I'm thoroughly frustrated, and when he hears it in my voice, he smiles again. This time I'm allowed to rise, but he does as I do, and soon I'm standing and he's sitting on the edge of the bed. I lean in for a kiss, intending to show him just how he has made me feel, but he turns his head and bites at my neck instead. As soon as my knees go weak, he takes me by the shoulders and spins me, pulling me back against him. His hands slide along my sides and take me by the hips, and then thrusts upward and joins us as he pulls me against his lap.

The relieved sound I make is likely not very quiet, but I don't care. I bring my hand behind my head and bury my fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, and relish how close his mouth is to my ear when I hear his pleased sigh. He pulls my hips upward, encouraging an easy pace, and groans as I tighten and bear down against him.

Alistair and I take our time, moving slowly, enjoying a slow build in sensation augmented by the feel of so much of his skin on mine. His hands caress my hips, encouraging me to grind against him, and I turn my head sideways for a kiss. When I begin to pant in earnest, he begins thrusting to meet me with slightly more force.

"I love you," he murmurs, nibbling at my ear.

"So you have said," I reply, and smother his grumble in another kiss.

Desperation eventually wins out over pleasure, and Alistair urges me to the floor on my hands and knees, falling behind me and pushing into me again.

"I love you," he repeats.

"I heard you," I groan, and then gasp in outrage when he spanks me. No one had ever _dared_ , not even my family... _Maker_. I thought spanking was supposed to hurt. What is happening to my nerves is anything but unpleasant, and when I turn my head and smile at him, I can see him scowl.

"Come on, Evie, how hard is it to say it?"

"To say what?" I gasp, and feel a thrill when he spanks me again, harder this time. I tighten around him unconsciously, which encourages him to do it again. And again. And again. The sensation brings me from pleasure to climax more rapidly than I could have imagined, which Alistair seems to find amusing; as I fall to the floor, groaning and weak, he laughs at me.

"I love you... _and_ the noise you just made. What was that, exactly?"

"I love you too, you bastard," I manage, and smile as he falls silent in concentration. Hands to my hips, eyes closed, lips parted, slightly sweaty. He is gorgeous when he is desperate.

In the end, we are collapsed beside one another on the rug, naked and closer to the door than is probably prudent, but I can't care. He's warm, and close, and I love him.

"No, don't fall back asleep," he says, threading his fingers through my hair. "We have things we need to do, dearest."

"They can wait for another minute," I sigh.

But the footsteps pacing the hall suggest otherwise. If not Sten, then servants, unwittingly reminding me that there _are_ , in fact, things to be done. Many things, and very little time. Eventually, I agree that the rest of the day must be faced. I rise and redress—armor this time, thank the Maker—before seeking out Eamon. I expect that the arl will reprimand me for losing my head during Loghain and Arl Howe's visit. To my surprise, when I enter his study, he apologizes.

"I am sorry, Evie. We should not have been caught unawares by the arl's presence. Had I known, I could have prepared you, or sheltered you from that visit entirely."

I shake my head. "I will deal with the arl later. For now, we need to decide what to do about Loghain."

"Your best course of action would be to spend some time around town and see what you can learn. We need information, especially that can be used against him."

"Very well," I sigh. "There is only one place a noble goes to for information, you know."

"Then I suggest that you begin there."

I call the others into the dining room after being tactfully reminded by the bann that having a conference in my suite would likely send the servants into fits of gossip. As a perk of our changed venue, we are provided with a light lunch, but I pay for it by having Morrigan in such proximity to so many servants.

"Alistair and Sten are coming with me and Absolon today. The rest of you know the rules. Who needs an allowance?"

Zevran is usually the first to ask, but to my surprise he merely grins. Oh, Maker: I recognize that smile. Where did he get money? When Leliana hits him on the shoulder, it fades, and I pretend that I haven't noticed and parcel out money to Morrigan and Wynne. "Now remember, everyone will know who you travel with, and we have discovered that I am perfectly capable of damaging my own reputation, so please try not to help me along."

"Understood, my Warden," Zevran chuckles, and he and Leliana disappear out the door without another word.

"You should be worried by their behavior, _kadan_ ," Sten tells me.

"Trust me, I am," I reply, and lead everyone else toward the Gnawed Noble Tavern.

The news we glean is not good: many of the southern bannorns have fallen to the darkspawn, and the Alienage has been closed off from the rest of the city. The guards say that this is because the elves have been rioting, but rumor suggests a plague. I'm more inclined to follow the unofficial report: my tutor Aldous had spent a great deal of time impressing upon me the horrors of the last elven riots, and after such a result I can't imagine the same generation attempting another. At the time, I hadn't understood why he thought the topic so important, but now I believe it was an attempt to counter my mother's prejudice against elves. Our family was polite and kind to ours, naturally, as it is a basic human kindness to be so, but we were also kind to our livestock, and so in retrospect I believe this says less about us than Father liked to think. It was not until befriending Zevran that I had ever even thought it possible to consider an elf my equal.

The nobles recognize me, and so I spend a great deal of time reconnecting with old family friends, all of whom are shocked that the Couslands are _not_ dead to a man as Howe had insisted. Meeting them again gives me hope; these are good people, whom my father knew and trusted. With evidence, they shall be convinced, and Loghain deposed.

Now I simply need to find evidence in time; Denerim is sick and weak, ailing just like the rest of my country. Crime is rampant, the guard terrified, and refugees are beginning to clog the streets. If change is not effected in time, the city may take years to recover.

But the only suspicious activity I manage to come across that day concerns Leliana and Zevran, and that's not even through my own power: rather than my stumbling across them, they simply admit to me what they have been doing as we all flee the confines of the arl's estate and seek a decent tavern to eat dinner in. Even Sten and Wynne come along; by now, we're far too used to being in each other's company to feel comfortable on our own.

We've decimated our plates and are on our third bottle of wine when Zevran and Leliana pull me toward them. Well, Zevran pulls me into his _lap_ , and Leliana offers me her seat before the other patrons get too upset at the "uppity knife-ear" for having the gall to touch a human woman.

"We did some research of our own today, Evie," Leliana begins, passing me another glass of wine. Behind me, I can hear Alistair and Sten arguing about different fighting styles, and Morrigan appears to be receiving tips on casting more effective fire spells from _Wynne_ , of all people. Tomorrow she'll likely realize her mistake, but they're both too inebriated for me to risk stepping in now. Perhaps Morrigan will have another glass and forget the conversation entirely.

Yes, I can hope for that. I can also hope for Loghain to step down voluntarily, the archdemon to commit suicide, and my brother to have survived the massacre at Ostagar. I turn my full attention to my rogues and take a large sip of wine. "Did you learn anything useful? I would be surprised if the answer is no."

Zevran frowns. "Lel, are you _sure_ about this? Our Warden loves to spoil fun."

"You give her too little credit. Now hush, before she does her suspicious arm crossi—oh, dear."

I force my arms to uncross and remind myself to watch that habit when back among the nobility. The last thing I need is the Landsmeet reading me like a tavern sign. "Out with it, you two."

"We were wondering if you'd want in on a little... _job_ ," Zevran grins.

"No. No," I repeat. "And I don't want to know about it, either, because the less I have to tell the City Watch later, the better."

"Even if it involves Loghain and Arl Howe?"

"...I'm listening."

"We know where the arl is keeping his treasury," Leliana begins. "Not all of it legally gained, you see. And if we take that money—"

"—he can't pay his guards, fund more Crows, or fortify the defenses keeping him and Loghain safe. Not to mention he'll likely be quite upset," the elf finishes.

A dirty tactic. I should tell them no, and that they weren't to do it, either. But Howe _would_ do it, or worse, as he has proven time and time again since stabbing my father in the stomach. And that little _smile_ of his lingers in the forefront of my mind, taunting me. I can't put him in his place publicly. I can, however, send a clear message that—no, no. This would be an act completely fueled by a desire for revenge. I shouldn't attempt to justify it.

I take another sip of wine and think suddenly of Father. After Teagan had locked me in that kennel, I spent the week fuming before retaliating. It was a poorly thought-out plan, meant to implicate him in the theft of the feast day biscuits from the kitchen larder, but instead it resulted in the loss of _all_ desserts for a week, my being forbidden from lessons, and the boys ignoring me for days on end. By the third day I broke down in tears in Father's lap, lamenting that everyone hated me and I was _very_ bored.

"There's nothing wrong with revenge, pup," he murmured into my hair. "The only way you went wrong was getting caught." This was paired with the stare he used when I wasn't meant to pass what he said on to Mother. "Be direct, keep it simple, and stick to retaliating against the _little things_. You'd have been much less likely to be caught if you'd just given Teagan's boots to Absolon, you know."

I tried that next: it worked marvelously, and I escaped both formal discovery and punishment, but Father garnished my allowance to buy him a new pair. I knew better than to say anything when I noticed, and he never told on me to Mother.

_Keep it simple. Stick to the little things._ The ability to avenge my family's decimation remains beyond me, but I can retaliate against Howe's feigned ignorance at our reunion. That will make me feel a great deal better, in fact.

When I smile, Leliana tops off my wine glass. After I drain it, I inform them that we may proceed, on one condition: "No one dies."

Zevran scowls. "See? I told you she'd take the fun out of it!"

"No, this is wonderful!" I half-expect her to clap with glee. "We can do things my way!"

"Leliana's way" appears to be comprised of equal parts distraction and gall. After servants have been ordered to bring me "a gown, no, that collar is all wrong, no, that one is the wrong color, just give me the key," I'm being laced into her selection. While Zevran looks on with more interest than I am comfortable with, we are told her plan.

"What makes you think I can act well enough for this?"

"You're a Cousland, aren't you?" Leliana retorts, removing her armor and stepping into a tattered servant's dress she found in the sewing room. "Pretend you are humiliating someone at a dinner party!"

It occurs to me as we're walking that I probably should have been offended by that statement.

When we arrive at a warehouse in the Market District, foot traffic has almost ceased, and lights are steadily going out in windows. Zevran and I step into a nearby tavern for a drink while Leliana gathers the last bit of information that we need. She returns swiftly, which is excellent, because even the dwarf would find the ale in my cup undrinkable.

"There are five guards, all playing cards, and the one you'll want to target is named Deirick," she whispers to me as we leave. "He's young, and inexperienced, and has probably never seen a woman of your station up close in his life."

I shake my head. "Please tell me you have your bow."

"I do, but you said no death, and if one of them gets hurt, it will be entirely your fault."

"But relax!" Zevran grins. "Have fun!"

Leliana slides into character as we near the warehouse door, suddenly seeming exactly like a servant girl. Something in her shoulders has changed, perhaps, or her eyes seem less bright and watchful, or... Maker's breath, I'm having trouble even paying attention to her appearance now.

...When I have servants again, I'm going to make it a point to learn their _names_.

We have secured my hair into a twist, and I walk like Mother taught me to when I need to stand out in a crowd, directly through the front door and into the center of a ring of bored guards.

"Deirick!" I exclaim, flushing in embarrassment. "You said that you would have gotten rid of them by now!"

A freckle-faced youth looks up from his cards, then nearly drops them in shock as I inhale. "I—uh, my lady?"

"Oh, dear." I bury my face in my hands. "What if my father finds out because of this? All the nobles are in town, and my betrothed will know, and I'll be ruined!"

"Who in the Maker's name are you?" snarls the man that is clearly their leader.

Zevran needs to get in through the door. I take a few steps forward and square off against the captain, drawing everyone's eyes away from the entryway. "I'm not telling the likes of _you_! Deirick's told me all about _you_ , anyway."

"Sir, I have _never_ seen this lady in my life," laments the youth, but his face is flushing. Leliana chose the mark well.

Anger and protocol war within the captain. "Fine, then, will you at least tell me what you're doing here, my lady?"

"No, no, I'd rather guess," grins a bearded guard. "I never knew Deirick had it in him!"

"Or knew a girl who'd have him in her," adds the man beside him.

The blush creeping across my face isn't entirely false. "Are you going to let them speak to me like this?" I stare at the youth in dismay. "And shouldn't they be showing their captain more respect?"

This comment is met with raucous laughter. "She's as gullible as you are, D! It's a match made by the Maker himself," smirks the bearded man.

The captain pinches at the bridge of his nose and silences them all as I make a great show of offense. "You know the rules, boys. Tonat, go check the perimeter."

I see a flicker of movement behind the guards as the captain's orders are obeyed; excellent, Zevran has made it inside undetected. I'm offered a chair but refuse it, instead choosing to stand and wring at my hands, becoming more distraught each time Deirick insists that he has no idea who I am. "How could you _say_ such things!"

They of course discover Leliana, who allows herself to be dragged in by the arm with a waifish wail. "No, ser! Please, I was just followin' orders!" I nearly forget myself in shock and stare when I hear her speak with no accent at all.

"Orders? What orders?" snarls the captain. "Speak, girl!"

Zevran is near the first chest. As the lock clicks behind them, Leliana wails again and begins to cry.

"Please, don't yell! I was meant to stand at the door and warn the lady should someone come by, that's all! She just wanted to see her man in privacy!"

"Andraste's ass," laments Deirick. "I've never seen either of these women in my life."

Leliana raises her blue eyes to him angrily. "You have so! You've seen my lady's ass three times this week alone, so don't you dare invoke the Bride in such a way!"

I hide a giggle within a sob and fall to my knees to cover the sound of the third chest being unlocked. One more.

"It's two against one," laughs the bearded guard. "I say drop the pretense, kiss, and make up."

The youth crosses his arms and sulks at them all. "I'm not kissing _her_!"

I allow my genuine offense to show through. "How _dare_ you!" Two steps forward with no resistance. Their eyes follow, and Zevran begins his return to the door. "Were all those things you said to me a lie, then?"

"They must have been, my lady, because I don't remember ever saying them!" he replies, and even the captain cracks a smile.

"You're worse at lying than you are at cards," he grins. "Just drop the pretense and make your lady happy. We all _know,_ boy."

"A Crow's own luck, he has," grumbles a redhead at the table. "Only explanation for how he could end up with someone so pretty _and_ rich."

"Hush! Last thing I want is assassins coming down from the rafters," retorts the bearded man. "Talking about the Crows summons them!"

"Are both of you daft?" snarls the captain. "Stop saying that _name_!"

At his words, Zevran exits the warehouse. There's no stopping my laughter, but I manage to make it sound bitter rather than gleeful. When they stare at me in surprise, I take my final step forward, strike Deirick on the cheek, and then flee from the warehouse, hands over my face in shame.

"Where are you going, my lady?" calls the bearded man from the threshold. "I can give you what you want if he won't!"

But none of them follow, and we reconvene at the estate later, laughing, and possessing several silver bars.

"Tomorrow," I declare to Leliana, "we are going shopping for proper gowns. If Eamon is going to insist that I keep dressing up, it might as well be in something I _like_."

She agrees, then shakes her head at me. "You're a natural, Evie. I can't believe how well you did in there! You could almost be a bard!"

"I am a Cousland," I retort. "That is why you Orlesians lost the war, you know. Your country's nobles paid someone else to get information. We Fereldans went out and got it ourselves."

"It's a good thing I'm not a bard anymore, then," she says. "I'd be out of a job."

"Nonsense," I reply. "When Alistair and I have the throne, you shall be our minstrel. I love your singing too much to let it go now."

"And you love my killing as well, yes?" Zevran asks hopefully.

I frown. "No."

"Spoilsport," he mutters, then takes Leliana around the waist. "But come, darling. I believe that you and I have a heist that needs celebrating!"

She giggles. "I need to put this dress back where I found it first!"

"Oh, I am fully qualified to help with that," he grins, leading her toward the sewing room.

I consider reminding them not to scare the servants, but conclude that it's likely too late. It also seems more than slightly hypocritical to do so when I'm stripping in the middle of the main hall. The dress I leave neatly folded on a side table—let them ponder that for a while.

Thankfully, I make it back to my room without being discovered and crawl into bed beside Morrigan, suddenly bone tired. In the grand scheme of things, what we made off with amounted to no more than a week's pay for Howe's staff and guard.

But it's a start.


	18. Spit of the Maker

"This is a trap," I scowl at Eamon. "How can it _not_ be?"

Queen Anora's so-called handmaiden bristles. "I speak the truth! Arl Howe has her trapped in his estate, and he will kill her if you do not do something!"

The bann and arl seem mildly horrified at how direct the elf is, but thankfully I appear to have grown as a person, and so find it refreshing to find a servant and an elf with spine. If this is a trap, she's an exceptional liar; if she's telling the truth, she loves her lady fiercely. Either would be a rare quality for one in her station.

"So why come to the Wardens? Does the queen have no allies?"

The elf raises an eyebrow at me. "You mean like her father, the man who murdered her husband?"

"If we help with this, it could destroy our cause," I groan. Assuming this _isn't_ a trap, which I haven't yet ruled out.

"And if the queen dies and they succeed on pinning it on us, Evelyn, it _will,_ " Eamon replies.

I make a very unladylike noise at this and run my fingers through my hair. The maid frowns at me. "My lady said you were Cailan's friend! She said you'd help her!"

I narrow my eyes. "Of course I am going to help her, and the name of a dead friend does not need to be invoked for me to do so!"

Teagan laughs and smacks me on the back. "You always wanted to be the one who rescued the princess when we were little," he grins. "Now's your big chance!"

I shake my head. "I was a fool child. Let me go get my armor."

Alistair has been standing beside me in silence thus far, but at these words he coughs to get my attention. "Let me come with you. All of this worries me."

I shake my head. "Not this time, dearest."

"W-what? No! Why not?"

"Because if this _is_ a trap, they get both the remaining Wardens and the last son of Maric. I'll take Sten instead," I say, gesturing over my shoulder at the qunari.

The maid shakes her head. "No, that will not do at all! We cannot sneak a qunari in."

"Would you prefer the dwarf? And who said anything about sneaking?" I put my hands on my hips and stare down at her.

"Is it your wish to have the queen killed before we can get to her? You know Arl Howe and what he is capable of."

"...Sneaking it is, then," I sigh. "You're in luck, Alistair. You, me, Leliana, and Wynne."

"What?" Morrigan scowls. "Am I never to be given the chance to use my new spells?"

"This is supposed to be a quiet endeavor, if you will recall."

"And when have any of our missions gone according to plan?" she retorts. "Besides, Wynne is several decades too old to be a guard, whilst I am clearly in my prime."

Wynne agrees with her, though not in quite the same words, and I'm forced to revise my party yet again.

"And, if you're right, and this _is_ a trap?" Alistair asks.

"Then we will not get caught," I grin.

"Right. I like this plan. Simple, yet utterly foolhardy."

At these words, Teagan laughs at him. "All the best Cousland plans are simple and foolhardy, Alistair. Father used to tell me that is how the Fereldans won the war against Orlais. Take it as a sign that this will work."

And it does, once I manage to get Morrigan into a suit of armor. "'Tis far too likely that I shall cook or electrocute myself in this," she laments, moving her fingers awkwardly in her gauntlets.

"And wouldn't that be a _shame_ ," Alistair mutters.

Afterward, the only difficulty proves to be keeping the two of them silent until we reach the queen's room. The workers on Howe's estate are in an uproar, and the guards are too busy preventing a riot to pay us "new recruits" any mind.

"The arl has not been paying his workers," confides the maid. "He tells them there was a problem with the latest payment going missing, but no one believes it. He is a stingy man."

To my benefit, the helmet masks my smile. It also masks my frown upon finding the door I'm planning to have Leliana pick open sealed with a magical barrier.

"I fear there has been a bit of a hitch," calls a familiar voice from the other side.

"An interesting phrasing, my lady," I reply, shaking my head. Anora has always excelled at understatement. But she assures me that once the mage who cast the barrier is dead, the door will open again. The mage that Howe keeps by his side night and day.

Excellent. So much for subtlety.

...Then again. This estate is full of men who killed my family. Men who would be used against us should civil war happen despite Arl Eamon's best efforts at the Landsmeet. Men who are, by all I overheard on my way into his estate, perfectly aware that they are serving scum. Suddenly, a subtle touch seems much less appealing.

And I might get to kill Howe. He would hardly allow his pet mage to die without interference, now would he?

We try to find a room to change back into our gear after Morrigan insists that she'd rather cast spells naked than in guard armor. I open a door to what, if the estate has any sense to it, will be a private bedroom, and discover a guard with his trousers dropped. He's standing with his back to us, and I can see more of his backside than is desirable. Based upon the small noise Morrigan makes, she agrees.

"Maker," he groans.

That's when I notice the maid on her knees, head bobbing busily.

I silently order the rest of my companions to wait, walk up behind them, and tap the guard on his right shoulder. "Hi!"

He turns with a shout, and I punch him in the face, sending him sprawling to the floor. The maid stares at me in horror as I draw my knives.

"Get out," I tell her. "Tell any servants you see to get out with you."

"Y-yes, milady!" She sees the others, shrieks, and flees for the door.

I crouch beside the dazed guard and casually put a blade to his throat. "Now, where is the arl?"

"The tey—" when he feels the knife dig into his neck, he corrects himself. "Uh—arl, Arl Howe is in his rooms, I think. North side of the castle."

I appear to have found an intelligent guard. "And where will you be while my friends and I are speaking to the arl?"

"S-south, south side, your ladyship."

An intelligent guard that _recognizes_ me. Even better. "And will you be telling anyone that you saw us?"

"Not bleeding likely," he snorts. "Bastard hasn't paid me in three weeks, and I'm not about to die for nothing."

"Good man," I grin, rocking back on my heels and pulling my knife away. "Fix your trousers and start running, then."

It doesn't take long after we change to locate a fully armed patrol, and soon we're skirmishing our way to the north wing. Halfway through the second fight I burst into a fit of giggles, which unsettles the others.

"Uh, Evie?" Alistair asks, bashing a guard in the face with his shield. "You okay?"

"It took Arl Howe's entire armed force to take my castle."

"You... may have mentioned that," he replies.

I decapitate a soldier and whirl to an archer who is trying to pincushion Leliana. "And only the four of us to take his."

"I'm not convinced 'tis as amusing as you seem to think," Morrigan says while engulfing two guards in a fireball. "Unless you intend to murder his family, as well?"

"No. I want justice, not vengeance."

"How big of you," she replies, indicating the now-fallen men in a ring around us. "This is not vengeance, then?"

"No!" Leliana cries. "Do you see us killing his servants and kin?"

"And we're not going to be doing that, right?" Alistair asks, grinning at me to show that he is teasing.

"Of course not."

Though I consider it for the briefest of moments when we find another Grey Warden in his dungeon. Riordan, a man sent to seek word of what happened at Ostagar by the Orlesian Grey Wardens, who had been turned away at the border. Andraste's blood, they could have been defending the Bannorn while Alistair and I massed more supporters!

I fume about this while checking Riordan for injuries—perfect, yes, they _tortured_ him—and handing him my waterskin, which he downs thirstily.

"Duncan must have recruited you," he says, heavily-accented voice lilting pleasantly. "He was always responsible for Ferelden's most fiery Wardens." His fingers brush mine as the skin is returned to my hand, and I feel myself blushing like I am sixteen again.

"Go to Arl Eamon's estate in the Market District," I tell him. "I have a mage there that heals, and the arl will give you a room. Not a cell," I add when he raises an eyebrow at me.

"I am in your debt, Evelyn." He meets my gaze and smiles faintly before striding purposely for the exit. His eyes are very blue.

"H-how, someone please tell me, how did he make that sound _sexy_?" Alistair sputters, and my flush deepens.

"Ask him when we return," Morrigan suggests. "Perhaps he will give you lessons!"

"Nonsense," Leliana says. "It is the manner of all Orlesian men. Alistair is a Fereldan."

"Oh, so now I'm naturally inferior, am I?" Alistair replies.

And we'd been getting along so well. Thankfully, we soon run into a distraction, strapped to a rack in a nearby torture chamber.

"Let me out!" wails a blond boy about my age. "Did my father think it was funny to wait so long before sending you?"

Maker's breath. "Oswyn?"

He stares at me through pain-hazed eyes. "Evie Cousland? What are _you_ doing here? I thought you didn't like me! I thought you were dead!"

"Mistaken on both counts, Oz." I motion for Alistair to help me lower the poor boy from the rack. Looking at his legs makes me feel ill. "Can you walk?"

"If it gets me out of here, yes, I can." He stumbles forward and clings to me awkwardly. "Sorry."

I force Alistair to give him a change of clothes and bandage the worst of his wounds myself. "Get out of here, Oz. Your father is—"

"Let me guess, at the tavern, right?" He smiles at me ruefully. "Good, then I can have a stiff drink while I tell him what sort of snakes he's allied with." Osywn hobbles away, and I wipe his blood from my hands wearily.

"I take it he's a noble's son?" Alistair asks me.

I nod. "The son of a bann from the south. Our families tried to marry us off, actually."

"What was wrong with him?" Morrigan asks me. "He seemed attractive enough."

"Sure, but he is also an abysmal fighter," I shrug. "We had nothing to talk about."

"I thought the point of noble marriage was obtaining an heir. Surely you would not need conversa—"

"Move on, Morrigan," I grumble. "You sound like my mother."

"Then I am not wrong!"

"Oh, look," Alistair interjects. "An elf!"

Arl Howe has certainly been busy. Grey Wardens, heirs to bannorns, and now a city elf, who seems strangely resigned to being here. I open his cell and question him patiently, learning that he was imprisoned before the arl arrived. Urien's son had interrupted this man's wedding, taken his bride and cousin, and—

"Maker's breath," I mutter. "Vaughan, you slime." Even Morrigan is flinching.

"I-is the Alienage... are they all okay?" asks the elf.

"I wish I could tell you," I admit. "The guards have closed the gates."

"I need to get out of here and try to get home. Or-or maybe out of town?"

I shake my head. "I could offer you safe shelter until we figure out what is happening with your people," I suggest, but he frowns at me.

"Forgive me if I don't jump at the offer. I'd really rather just... go." And so he does.

"Not the most trusting sort," Morrigan observes.

"Can't say I blame him, do you?" Alistair retorts. "Howe doesn't seem like the best _host_."

"Hush, both of you," I hiss. "Where there are prisoners, there is bound to be Howe." It is clear, by now, that the man is a sadist. Had he smiled when he stabbed my father in the stomach? For that matter, will I be smiling when I stab him in his? And if so, what does that say about me?

When I open the next door and find him, I decide that it doesn't matter.

"Oh, look, Bryce Cousland's little spitfire," he smiles. "Never thought you'd show yourself here, you know."

"What can I say," I shrug. "I thought our last meeting got off on the wrong foot, and came to try again." Alistair and Morrigan flank me on either side, and Leliana remains in the doorway, hand casually on her bowstring. Howe has two mages with him, but the instant they see Alistair they begin to shuffle nervously. They always _know_.

"Yes, sorry about that. As the right hand of the king, I have to be careful who I'm seen speaking to in public, you know."

I bare my teeth. "Naturally."

Howe steps closer and sweeps his eyes over my armor. "Still playing at being a man? I thought after Cailan and your brother died you'd finally grow up and stop humiliating your mother at dinner parties."

"If that was your hope, you should have told your men to leave her alive. But this is not play. Grey Wardens wear armor." My voice is level, face pleasant; as far as he can tell, his quip about Mother did no damage.

"Pity." His lip curls as he says the word. "You'd be much more fetching in a dress."

Blast it. My hands are shaking. I cross my arms and force myself to smile at him. "I find they leave no place to keep my knives."

He sighs. "Not that it isn't fun to catch up, but I have things that need doing, and since both you and the royal bastard are here, I might as well keep you." He snaps his fingers, and the guards take their weapons into their hands.

I draw my knives with a flourish and feel a grin of relief cross my face. "You may try to, if you wish."

"Why posture, Evie? You've lost!" He steps closer, daring me to lunge. "You're the last of a murdered family, and leading a shattered order that have been labeled outlaws in your own country. Your friends are dead, and your lands are now _mine_. What do you have to fight for?"

Howe clearly was not expecting me to giggle. "You _idiot_."

His hand darts out and takes me by the chin. I feel the air heat and force Morrigan to halt her spell with a hand gesture; she'll fry us _both_ if I don't first get out of her way.

"Let go of her!" Leliana shouts, raising her bow, but she is ignored.

"There it is," he sighs, leaning in close to stare at me. "I can see it in your eyes. That same damned look that every Cousland gets when they're about to win."

When I pair whatever he sees with the Cousland smile, his expression turns sour. "You father would be proud of you, Evie." I can feel his breath on my skin and shut my eyes in disgust. "I am going to _love_ killing you."

There's no stopping Morrigan this time. As soon as I feel the spell, I take Howe by wrist and spin us so that his back takes the brunt of the flame blast. While he howls and drops to smother the flames, I lunge at the nearest mage. The guard beside me is clutching at his head and screaming loud enough to make my ears ring, but underneath it I think that I can hear Morrigan chuckle merrily.

By the time the mage is down, Howe has recovered, which I discover when he brings the handle of his axe down on the back of my neck. I crumple to my knees, stunned, and feel the heel of his boot dig into my kidneys. I force myself to shriek and tighten my hands on my blades, sending my arms behind me and seeking flesh. Father's sword misses, but Duncan's dagger digs into his thigh, and he howls in pain. The blade catches on bone and I leave it there, staggering to my feet and looking to my companions.

Morrigan is down, blood running from a neck wound, and Alistair and Leliana have been surrounded by the remaining guards. When Howe pounces on me like a pain-mad mabari, Alistair bellows my name and tries to surge toward me. As I hit stone, the sounds of metal clanging on metal fill my ears. Howe wrests Father's sword from my fingers and plunges the tip through the palm of my main hand. For a moment I see white, and then I can hear myself shrieking. Howe smiles at the sound, and as my hearing returns I realize Alistair is shouting my name so loudly that his voice is going out.

"Evelyn!" _Clang_. "No! Evelyn!" _Clang_.

Another guard falls in my peripheral vision as Howe pulls the blade from the flesh of my palm and holds it in front of my eyes. "Isn't this your family's sword? Bryce used to wave it in my face and brag about how many Orlesians it had felled. I _hate_ this sword."

Blood is flowing freely from the wound in my hand. I force my pain-filled muscles to work and bring it to my face.

"Killing you with it seems fitting, you know." He straddles me as best he can with his injured thigh, panting with pain and exertion. "Especially since I didn't get to enjoy killing your father nearly as much as I wanted to. As soon as your fellow Warden goes down, we can make a proper time of it, just you and me."

I block his expression from view with my hand, thoughts racing in the odd clarity that always comes to me when I experience extreme pain. I always try not to think about how dark my blood has gotten. I always try not to think about how thickly it pools when I'm injured, or how it sometimes seems to burn through my veins, but right now it's dripping onto my skin from the wound in my palm.

Howe is busy selecting another soft place to stab, so doesn't realize how much blood has collected in my mouth until I spit it into his eyes. He is not tainted; he feels the burn, and as he snarls in pain and brings his hands to his face, my father's blade drops from his grasp. I grab for it with my main hand and miss—blast it, not all of my fingers are working—feeling the metal slide from my fingers, slick with my own blood. I buy time for myself by twisting the dagger embedded in Howe's thigh with my good hand and feel it catch again as he howls and attempts to scramble away. I rise with him, and search frantically for my sword.

No. The sword is too heavy for my off-hand. To kill him, I need the dagger back. I pull it from his thigh and whirl, using momentum to bury it deep within his gut. Howe staggers and clutches at his stomach, staring at the little blade in shock before crumpling to the ground.

"Maker spit on you!" he hisses, eyes narrowed in rage. "I deserved _more_!"

"As you wish," I reply, and use both hands and my remaining strength to send Father's sword through the leather plate covering his chest.

 

~*-*~

 

 Most of Howe's blood has ebbed onto the floor by the time Alistair kneels beside me and begins carefully bandaging my hand. I slump against him wearily and listen to the silence in the room.

"I-is Morrigan...." I begin as soon as I realize what sound is missing.

"She's fine," He reassures me. "Leliana just bandaged her up, and she's resting. It wasn't as bad as it looked."

"'Tis fine for you to say," I hear her mutter weakly. "This will scar!"

"Good," he retorts. "Maybe you'll wear some sodding clothes to hide it!" He ties the bandage off and frowns down at me. "That should keep it from bleeding too bad until we get back to Wynne. Don't think you'll be able to hold a blade, though."

I shake my head. "No. Thankfully, I have a bow with me, so I am not entirely useless." I rise to my feet with a groan and walk over to Morrigan. "Are you ready to head back?"

She nods. "Unlike you, my battle skill remains unhampered."

"Set everyone on fire, then, and save me the trouble of fighting them."

"Gladly!" she smiles, and rises with a grimace. "Shall we go collect your queen?"

I'd forgotten about Anora. But before we can get to her, there are other prisoners to let out. A Templar, a veteran who survived Ostagar, and—

"What? Who's there?"

I would recognize _that_ voice anywhere. I step closer, and sure enough, I would recognize those green eyes and that sneer anywhere, as well. "...Vaughan?"

"Evie? Evie Cousland? What in the Maker's name are you doing in my dungeon?"

"I think the more interesting question is what _you_ are doing in your dungeon," Morrigan replies.

"Howe," he snarls, then turns his eyes back to me. "Wait. Is that—how much of that blood is yours?"

I hide my bandaged hand behind my back. "More than I want. Howe is dead."

"Well, I'm thrilled to see _you_ alive. Now let me out."

"No."

"What?" His face turns feral. "Howe put me down here, then seized control of my estate! Let me out!"

"You are exactly where you should be, Vaughan. I heard about what happened in the Alienage."

His eyes narrow. "You're as much of a bitch as ever, you know that?"

"And you have grown slimier with time. Good day."

We turn to walk away. Alistair steps closer as Vaughan howls in rage behind us. "Another suitor of yours, I take it?"

"Please," I laugh. "Even Mother had her limits. I know him through Cailan. They hated each other."

"Ah. That's good to know, actually. I was beginning to wonder if they'd thrown every unmarried noble at you."

"Everyone except Vaughan and Teagan," I grimace.

"Right, Teagan." Alistair rolls his eyes. "Why not him?"

"His mother hated me, if you must know."

"And I assume she had no good reason for it?"

"Oh, no. She had a very good reason. And we are not talking about it. Now, we need to get the queen."

Anora makes appropriately horrified noises at all the blood covering us when we return to her, and as we move toward the main hall I almost have time to allow myself to hope that we'll just be able to simply walk away. Unfortunately, the few surviving guards seem to have found our trail of carnage, and Loghain's men, headed by Ser Cauthrien, are lined along the steps to the main door.

"Oh, sod it," Alistair mutters, and I step forward to attempt to reason with the teyrn's two-legged mabari bitch.

She shouts at me from behind her wall of archers, calling me names, each worse than the last, and some that I've never heard in my life. She wants me to surrender, she says, for murdering the arl in his own home.

"Morrigan," I mutter. "Set the room on fire."

Had I known that she actually _could_ , I wouldn't have phrased it in quite that fashion. The guards shriek and collapse as flames materialize from the air, licking at bowstrings and igniting hair, sending smoke roiling through the room. I see Anora run for the door and curse: when she flings it open, the air from outside rushes in, feeding the flames and sending them toward us.

I do the sensible thing and order us back up the hallway, away from the conflagration in the main hall. Cauthrien follows with four unsinged guards, and soon is standing in the door of the library, attempting to glance over the stacks to find us. Leliana fells one of the guards as I catch the other with a trap, sending him to the ground in a pool of grease, which ignites when Morrigan sends another wave of fire toward him.

...Now the _library_ is aflame. Books blaze around us as I circle to meet Cauthrien, bow drawn warily. "You were _there_ , Ser Knight. You heard Loghain give the order."

"Yes," she retorts. "He saved us, and I am in his debt!"

"Or in his pocket. Better to be the leader of the king's troops than the teyrn's, after all."

She snarls and swings wildly at me. "I'll have that tongue of yours!"

"I'm sorry," Alistair says, stepping between us. "But I'm rather fond of her tongue, and I don't want to share."

The two remaining guards are soon lost to the smoke. But Cauthrien proves as difficult to kill for the four of us as Howe had been for me alone, especially since I'm forced to use a bow, which is next to useless against her armor. Nevertheless, Alistair slowly exhausts her, and Morrigan electrocutes her once or twice, and once she has lost coordination I manage to step in close, disarm her, and then send her headlong into a flaming bookshelf. If she's lucky, the pressure of the books and collapsing shelves will crush her before the fire reaches the center of the pile. Though in that armor... perhaps smoke inhalation, then. It would still be better than burning alive.

By the time we let ourselves out, half of the estate is aflame, and the remaining guards are too busy fleeing to offer any resistance. We return to the arl, singed, bloodied, bandaged, and reeking of burnt paper. When we enter the main hall, Zevran takes one look at us and begins laughing.

"I can already tell you I should have been there, my Warden."

"Zev?" Alistair says pleasantly, throwing an arm around my shoulders. "Shut up. Where's Wynne?"

He points toward a sitting room, and Leliana melts into Zevran's arms for a hug as I lead my battered companions toward Wynne. Riordan is having tea with her, and already looks much recovered. He stands beside me as I order Morrigan to be seen to first.

"Your injury would appear to be the worst," he observes.

I shrug. "If she scars, we will never hear the end of it. I can be in pain a few moments more."

He takes my hand and begins gingerly unwrapping the bandage. "That is clear through the palm, yes? A lesser man would be unconscious."

Maker's sodding—the air is _burning_ around the wound. "There will be time for that later."

"Can you still move all of them?" I can't hide my flinch as he begins articulating my fingers. My vision swims, and when I come to again I'm slumped in the chair that had been behind me moments ago, and Wynne is standing over me.

"You're not going to like this, Evie." Her voice is soft, but firm. "Several bones are broken, and two of your tendons are cut. Those will need to be mended at least partially before I heal you, just to be sure the magic knits them properly."

"M-mended?" Alistair worries. "Mended how?"

When Wynne holds up a needle, he grows pale and excuses himself. Unsurprisingly, Morrigan follows. Riordan shuts the door after them, then moves closer, offering to assist Wynne.

"I've seen my share of grisly wounds. Let me know if you need another pair of hands."

"Just don't prick yourself, Wynne," I manage. Maker's breath, I hardly sound like myself. "I wouldn't want you to—"

"Hush, child," she replies, running a hand over my hair. "They're gone. You can cry now."

"Nonsense," I insist. "I don't need to cr—"

But I do. I do need to cry, because it's over. Howe is dead, my Father stands avenged, and there's a sodding _hole_ through my main hand that the mage is leaning over with a needle. My voice breaks, and I feel tears begin to streak my cheeks.

"Give me your good hand, Evie," Riordan suggests. "Tell me if the pain gets too bad, and I'll give you your glove to bite down on." His fingers lace with mine, and when the first of the thread begins to pull through my flesh, I whimper and turn my head away.

Maker's breath, if only the dwarf were here.

"Can't I get a drink?" I grimace, clenching my teeth.

"It's a blood thinner, dearest. It's already hard enough for me to see."

I glance at my hand reflexively, and instantly wish that I had not. "Don't look," Wynne agrees. "This will be over soon."

Pain is exhausting. By the end I am crying silently into Riordan's shoulder, and he is running his hand over my hair and making soothing noises like Father used to do when I would fall and scrape my knees. When Wynne's magic finally is cast on my hand, the sudden lack of pain brings with it a realization: Riordan is Duncan's age. He must have been a Warden for a long time. He'll know how to kill the archdemon. He'll know where other Wardens are, and how to reach them. He'll know how to perform the Joining.

 

He'll know what to _do_.

 

"There, Evie," he murmurs into my hair. "It is over. We're all better now, no?"

Strangely, these words make me cry harder.


	19. The Dead Don't Plan

Riordan sits beside me in the hall, propping his legs on the chair across from me and Alistair in a way that seems oddly familiar. "You're looking much better this morning, Evie," he says, and waves casually at Alistair.

I groan and rub my hand. "It is still a little tender, but I can make a fist. If I can hold my own in practice today, I might head into the Alienage like Anora suggested. Want to come along?"

He shakes his head. "I'm afraid I have other matters to attend to. Letters to write, weapon caches to check, that sort of thing. But if you would like a sparring partner for the morning," he adds with a smile, "I would be more than happy to join you."

"Excellent," I nod. "Normally I practice with Sten, but he might be more than I can handle today."

"I will go easy on you, then," he grins. "Let me get my weapons." He rises smoothly and strides for his room.

"He is a nice man," I observe, stretching my fingers gingerly to make sure I have my full range of motion back.

"Oh, _sure_. Very nice." Alistair crosses his arms. "Doesn't it bother you that he's already calling you Evie?"

I shrug. "We are Wardens. If anyone is allowed, it would be another of the order."

"What, am I not special?"

I smack him on the bicep. "Of course you are. Why, do you want a nickname, too?"

"That's not my point, and you know it."

"He could call you 'Allie,'" I grin. "Want me to talk to him about it?"

"No. Do me a favor, and _don't_ do that. And don't let Zev hear you say that, either." When my smile widens, he pulls me to him and begins nipping at my neck.

"Why not?" I giggle. "I think 'Allie' suits you quite well."

"Oh, yes. That's lovely," he growls, and covers my mouth with his. Only when I'm breathless does he continue. "Are you trying to make me prove my masculinity to you again?"

"I—" Eamon is glowering at me over his shoulder. "Hold that thought."

Alistair turns and flushes scarlet. "O-oh, Eamon. Hello. I—did you need me for something?"

The arl shakes his head. "I was hoping to tear Evelyn away from you, if possible."

His phrasing makes me scowl. "Of course. I will find you later, dearest." I give Alistair a kiss on the cheek and rise to follow Eamon into his study.

"There are places other than the hall for such things, you know," he says, sitting at the chair behind his desk.

I perch on the edge of the desktop and glare at him over my shoulder. "We were _kissing_ , Eamon. I am hardly worried about the servants witnessing simple affection."

"Nor should you be," he sighs. "I am more worried about Anora. She may turn against us if she learns that you and Alistair are together."

...He has a point. If I were a queen and knew the candidate for the regency had a paramour, I'd be much less willing to work with him. "So I am right not to trust her, then?"

"I honestly cannot say. She seems to genuinely want to depose Loghain, but that does not mean that she is on our side."

"Well, naturally not. Nor should she be, since we are planning to depose her, as well."

Eamon sighs. "Will you go speak with her? I would like your opinion on what she is planning."

Anora and I had spoken last night, and I'm not looking forward to repeating the encounter. Mother always used to say that the Mac Tirs carried themselves like nobility who remembered all too well that they had once been common, and she is no exception. Her tone is affected, her shoulders stiff, hands awkward, and when she is in a room with other nobility, she actually _bristles_. When we met as girls, I remember being confused by how rarely she smiled.

Wonderful, really, when one needs diplomacy.

I steel myself and walk to her suite, tapping on the door frame to announce my presence. She turns from her desk and smiles at me. "Oh, Evelyn!"

"Good morning, Anora. I was wondering if you needed anything."

She shakes her head. "No, Eamon has taken exceptional care of me so far. I have books, clothes, and my handmaiden has been integrated into his estate's staff. Thank you." She gestures for me to sit, and so I do.

"He has proven to be an excellent host in the past, so this is hardly a surprise." Anora nods. "Thank you again for coming to my aid. I heard about your hand."

"It was worth it in the end. We were able to free several people who had been wrongly imprisoned."

"Yes, that will be a blow to my father's credibility, to say the least," she sighs, wringing at her hands. "Might I ask what you intend to do with the throne after the Landsmeet?"

I cross my arms. "I will be honest with you, Anora. Our wish is for Alistair to take the throne."

"Why? Who do you think led this country for the past five years? Cailan?"

I force myself to smile. "Interesting that you assume such an assertion works in your favor."

Her eyes meet mine. "What?"

"You are saying that it is your rule, not Cailan's, that allowed our king to be murdered, our armies to be slaughtered by darkspawn, and a teyrnir taken by force."

"No, I—" But she lets me interrupt her.

"It also worries me that you allowed your father to step in as regent when Cailan died, rather than continuing on your own."

"I feared for my life!"

"And what will happen to our country the _next_ time you fear for your life, my lady?"

Anora purses her lips and stares at the floor. "You speak as though you have never feared for yours."

I refrain from reminding her that my home was invaded and my family slaughtered in their beds, while she was confined to a _bedroom_ for three days. "I am a Grey Warden."

"So is Alistair, unless you have forgotten."

"I can think of no better king to save a country from a Blight."

"And after the Blight? Has fighting darkspawn prepared him for politics?"

No. Now is not the time to tell her _I_ plan to take her place as queen. "...Those skills can be taught."

"So you admit that he is not a leader?"

I'd almost forgotten what it was like to converse with nobles. "He would, at least, know how to prevent civil war. He has done better leading this country these past few months than you, and he is technically an outlaw."

"And had _your_ guidance. I like to give credit where credit is due. But this is getting us nowhere," she sighs. "I respect your opinion, but I must warn you: until the Landsmeet, our goals are one. Afterward, if I cannot expect your support, you will be an enemy, despite all that you have done for me."

"I understand," I reply, rising from my chair. "I will not take it personally."

"Cailan always spoke very highly of you, Evelyn." She looks up at me with sad eyes. "I can see why."

"I miss him," I sigh. "Even though half the time I was around him I wanted him dead."

She chuckles. "He brought that out in people. Good day."

It's too bad, really. I've always liked Anora as a person. She's just an absolutely worthless ruler.

Riordan is sitting on one of the couches in my suite when I walk in to get my knives and armor. "I was wondering where you'd run off to."

"Sorry, Eamon sent me on an errand. Let me change and we will head for the courtyard."

"Good. That gown is far too nice to risk." He rises and excuses himself from my room while I begin unlacing it. Arl Howe's filched money bought me this gown, and it isn't _blue._

Armor on, I open the door and rejoin Riordan, who gestures for me to lead on. "The more I see of your armor, the more I like it," he says as I walk down the hall in front of him. "The leatherwork is exceptional."

"I found it in Orzammar, of all places," I reply as I open the door to the courtyard.

"It was not made there. It's Orlesian, no doubt of that." He faces off with me and draws his blades. "Now, let's see what you can do."

My goal is to make him regret saying that, and the way his eyes widen as he parries my first strike gives me hope that I'll succeed. I follow my next thrust with a hand to the chest, meant to throw off his balance—

—and land in the dirt with his fingers around my wrist.

"Not many people know that move," he grins, standing over me on the cobblestones.

"A fact I clearly rely on too much." I grip his hand and allow him to pull me to my feet.

His smile widens. "Shall we try again?"

This time I allow him to come at me. I focus on parrying, and footwork, and soon we're both sweating. Out of the corner of my eye I see Teagan, Sten, and Zevran step out of the estate to observe us. I'm entirely unconvinced that I want an audience for this; I've grown too used to winning matches, it seems.

Riordan is older, so I make a point to dodge and dance, doing my best to wear him out first. It appears to work. "Duncan chose you well, Evie," he pants several minutes later. "You must have been more than he could handle."

I feel my face flush, but thankfully that will be attributable to the exertion. "You knew him well, then?"

"We were recruited at the same time." His knives slow as he replies, and I use the opportunity to kick him in the chest. When he staggers backward I move in to press my advantage and—oh, sod it, how did he hook my ankle—

Maker's breath. We lie stunned on the courtyard floor in a pile of limbs and blades, both miraculously unstabbed. I curse and attempt to struggle to my feet, lose my balance again, and end up sprawled across his chest, cheeks burning. Not my most graceful moment.

Riordan brushes my hair out of my eyes and laughs when he catches the full force of my glare. "You look unhappy."

"Yes, imagine that."

"Finding someone with new skills should be a good thing. We'll have to practice until you learn all my tricks."

Zevran detaches himself from the wall he was leaning against and moves to help me up. "I'm not sure I want our Warden learning all your tricks," he says over my shoulder.

Riordan's merry expression cools. "In that case, I'll return to my duties. Thank you for practicing with me, Evie. It was a pleasure to see you in action."

As soon as he's out of sight, I cross my arms and stare at Zevran. "It usually takes longer for you to decide you dislike someone."

"What's to dislike?" the elf grins. "Handsome, well-built, wonderful voice, carries himself well. Great sense of humor, and probably a wildcat in bed, but there it is! I have to hate him on principle for these things."

"Why?"

Zevran chucks me under the chin. "He's more competition for your attentions, my dear!"

_Competition_. Oh. "Oh," I frown. "You think he will—"

"I _know_ he will, my Warden, and unlike me, I'm unconvinced he'll stop when he learns you've already been claimed." When I sigh and shake my head, he continues on much more merrily. "Anyhow! I was sent to tell you Eamon has stolen Alistair for the day, and we're to go on killing without him."

"Take me with you," Sten insists.

"The Sten is bored!" Zevran smiles. "Coincidentally, I am too. What say you we take Wynne and go explore the Alienage?"

I shrug and resign myself to yet another day without Alistair. "Fair enough. Anora says Loghain is up to something in there, so we might as well find out what it is."

The last thing I expect to find in the middle of an Alienage is a group of Tevinter mages. The angry redheaded elf is less surprising. In fact, I take an instant liking to Shianni, which seems to unsettle her.

"They've taken my uncle and the elder, and they say they're curing us, but no one ever comes back!" she fumes at us and the crowd of worried elves around the mages.

"Well, I think we should see what they are doing in that hospice of theirs, no?" grins Zevran.

When I nod, Shianni pales. "You're going to get everyone killed!"

"Not if I can help it," I grumble, and lead my party to the mages.

"Stand back," their leader tells me. "Many of these elves are infected. We're treating them with spells in the hospice."

Wynne's eyebrows raise. "What sort of magic is this? I'm a healer, and I know of no spells that cure plague."

"Well," I grin. "I say we have them let you in and show you how it is done! For the good of Ferelden."

The mage frowns. "N-no, we can't let anyone in. You might become infected!"

"But if she knew the spell, she could cure us," I reply.

"Well, yes. But. Look, I have orders not to let anyone in who isn't infected." His shoulders have squared defensively. He's hiding something.

"Is the door locked?" He nods.

"Well, then. Unlock it, and we will show _ourselves_ in. No rules broken!"

"I'm growing tired of your interference," snarls the mage.

"Good," I reply, and punch him in the face.

The answering shockwave knocks me back into the crowd, and the assembled elves scatter with a wail as I pick myself up from the dirt. Sten already has his sword buried in a mage's ribcage, and Zevran's knives are flashing as he runs at the one who sent me flying.

While I'm looting their corpses, the redheaded elf reappears, giggling wildly. "That's... one way to open a door, anyway."

"Our Evie loves opening doors," Zevran grins. "But this is her flashiest attempt yet."

I remove my helmet and smooth my hair out of my eyes so that she can clearly see my face. "Shall we go find your uncle?"

Shianni shakes her head. "Check for me, please. If there are more in there, I-I can't fight."

There _aren't_ more inside, which bodes poorly. I release multiple terrified elves from their cages and check the paperwork on the desk nearby. What I find there confirms my suspicions.

"Slavers," I mutter, and see Zevran's countenance darken.

"We are killing them, yes?"

"Of course we are," I reply.

And we do, once we find them. The lead slaver is also a blood mage, which upsets both Wynne and Sten, and annoys me sufficiently with his false bravado to make the actual battle seem pleasant. Even better, his corpse holds documents that prove he was here with Loghain's blessing.

Fereldans don't take kindly to slavery. As descendants of people ruled by the Tevinters, and freed from Orlais's grasp less than half a century ago, there's too much defensiveness left in our memories. No matter that their kind were once slaves: the Landsmeet would be outraged to hear Loghain advocated the sale of elves. To _Tevinters_ , no less.

The leader of the Alienage, Valendrian, is a kind man, though more passive than I'd like. He appears resigned, rather than angered, by his stint in a cage, which perplexes me. When he asks after Duncan, I feel a pang, which must have registered on my face.

"So he's dead, then. When I heard that some Wardens had survived, I assumed he would be among them."

I smile sadly. "Were you friends?"

"Yes, after a fashion." He turns to a nearby shelf and pulls a delicate knife from a drawer. "He gave this to me, once, but I think it would see more use with you."

When he holds it out to me, I shake my head. "It seems to me that your people need to learn to defend yourselves."

"Have you not seen the signs? 'Any elf caught bearing a weapon will die upon it.'"

My eyes narrow. Highever's Alienage has no such rule. "That needs to change."

To my surprise, the elf laughs. "Forgive me if I don't hold my breath waiting. Please, take it." I shake my head.

"No. You will need it one day."

"Very well," he sighs, and returns it to its resting place. "What can I offer, then, as a reward for saving my kin?"

"Nothing," I insist.

When we leave, Sten places a hand on my shoulder and stares down at me in confusion. "Tell me, were your people being thrifty when they built this place from trash?"

"No," I mutter. "No, they were being _cruel_."

"That was my other wonder. When that tree falls, it will take out no fewer than three houses. The construction of this entire area is unwise."

Zevran laughs bitterly. "And still, this is one of the better Alienages."

I pinch at the bridge of my nose and feel suddenly old. Cailan's family had never allowed us inside the Alienage when we were growing up, and now I'm unsure as to why. Were they protecting us from the elves, or our ideals from reality? "This place needs repaired," I mutter. "And it needs guards."

"It has guards. Guards that let them be sold into slavery," the elf replies.

"No. It needs _elven_ guards."

Zevran rubs my back. "Are you planning on stopping the Blight, or changing the world, my Warden?"

I keep my voice light. "Can I not do both?"

"No," Sten frowns, and I let the matter drop. There _has_ to be a way. Perhaps an elf should be made the next Arl of Denerim as an apology for Vaughan's—no, no. That's too great a change. There would be riots, and more would die. But perhaps an arling, or a bannorn, where the community is too small to have a full Alienage....

Alistair won't be happy to learn that my list has grown. So much to do, and only twenty-nine years left to do it. I want to see him. I want to find him, drag him to my suite, and continue what we'd started in the hall this morning. But he's still with Eamon when we return, and so I'm forced to content myself with a bath. Afterward, Leliana convinces me to lace myself back into a gown for dinner. A wise decision, since Anora has deigned to join us, and yet utterly wasted, as I'm not seated beside Alistair. He's forced to spend the evening speaking with her. Bann Teagan is seated beside me, and Riordan across, so I'm not _bored_ , exactly. But Maker's breath, does Eamon believe Alistair and I have no tact whatsoever?

After dinner, Alistair grimaces at me as he's guided back to Eamon's study. Anora retires to her room, and I coerce Leliana to play a few songs for those of us left in the dining room. Unsurprisingly, Riordan joins us, sitting in a nearby chair and nodding along to the music happily.

"Do you dance, Evie?" he asks after the second song. When I nod, he holds out a hand. "Would you do me the honor? Few Wardens know how, and I fear I may be losing the skill entirely."

He's a confident leader, with strong hands and fingers. Not as flashy as Zevran, but I would rather be relaxed than exhausted tonight. Once we're settled into the song, he smiles at me. "Based on where you were sitting at dinner, you are a noble, yes?"

I nod. "Duncan recruited me the night my teyrnir was attacked by Arl Howe, actually."

He shakes his head. "What an awful man. Have you been a Warden long, then?"

"No. Well, a year or so now, I believe. The Deep Roads tend to eat time."

Riordan's smile fades, and I silently chide myself for mentioning the Deep Roads to a Warden his age. He said that he'd been recruited with Duncan. If Duncan had felt the Calling, then does Riordan? I look up at him in concern, and he shakes his head.

"You're doing remarkably well for so new a recruit. You and Alistair both."

"Frankly," I sigh, "it has felt like trying to cook in an unlit larder. So far everything has turned out properly, but that is just because of some lucky stumbling. I have no idea what we are meant to do."

The skin around his eyes tightens again, and I think suddenly of the look on Duncan's face when he told me of things we would discuss _after_ Ostagar. The memory hurts; it has been months since I have thought of Duncan from such a personal perspective.

When Riordan sees the worry on my face, his smile returns, and it looks almost natural. "We can discuss what to do later. Now is not the time."

"No!" I shake my head and pull away from him, halting our dance in the middle of the song. I see Zevran rise, one hand to a knife, and shake my head at him. "No," I repeat, forcing my voice to remain calm. "Duncan said the same the night before Ostagar. I am unsure how to kill the archdemon, how one performs a Joining, or how to select promising recruits. I am also terrified of becoming a Broodmother. If you know these things, you will tell me _now_."

An order. I just gave my current senior Warden an order. Thankfully, instead of taking offense, he gives a sober nod. "As you like. Come with me, then. There is something I wanted to show you, in any case, and we may talk when we get there. No, don't worry about weapons," he adds as I take a step toward my suite. "We will not be needing them."

Riordan leads me out the main gate of the estate and down an alley in the Market District, stopping at a seemingly abandoned warehouse disconcertingly close to the one I robbed mere nights before. "The Wardens have secret weapons stores in each country. I checked ours today, and not only is it still intact, but it has something you may be interested in." He slides a bookshelf away and ducks under a small door.

The room inside is full to the brim with arms and armor, glittering dimly in the light of the candle Riordan took from the main room. On a nearby table, I see a shield. Something about it seems oddly familiar....

"Someone was nice enough to return Duncan's shield to the Wardens," Riordan says, picking it up and holding it out to me. "I see that you and Alistair each have one of his blades. Since they work better in a set, I assume he was important to the two of you, and you are sharing them for sentimental reasons."

I nod and do my best not to meet his eyes, instead tracing my fingers over the griffon emblazoned on the shield. "Alistair knew him for longer, of course. We should give it to him."

"Very well. Consider it yours to give." He sits on the edge of the table and looks at me for several long moments before speaking again. "As for your questions, we shall start with the simplest. There is no way to tell if a recruit will survive a Joining. You simply take promise where you can see it and pray to the Maker that He is merciful when the time comes. And you cannot become a Broodmother, Evie." He smiles reassuringly. "You are already tainted. So put that worry out of your head."

"What about the Joining?" I wrack my memory, trying to remember everything that Duncan had said the night of mine. "It requires a mage, yes, to prepare the blood?"

Riordan nods. "Yes. The recipe and procedure is written down in a folio in the palace, where our official headquarters is. After the Landsmeet, I will show it to you. The First Enchanter and most senior mages of the Circle know this already, however, so it will not be a great loss if you do not memorize it this moment."

I take a deep breath and sit on the table beside him. "And the archdemon? How does one kill it?"

"You stab it, like any other darkspawn." He studies my face for a moment, then sighs. "Maker, you do not know, do you? Neither you, nor Alistair."

I feel my skin crawl. "Tell me."

"The Warden who makes the killing blow... doesn't survive."

" _What_?"

I force myself to listen to him as he explains why the Wardens exist, and why it works... and why no one else can kill an archdemon. No, worse. If someone else tries, it's simply _reborn_ , and must be killed again.

I sit, stunned, in the dim room for several seconds after he finishes speaking, mind reeling. No. I've worked so hard, and come so far, and. but no, this answer has been right in front of me all along, as well. I just didn't _think_.

"In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death... " My voice trails off hoarsely.

"Sacrifice," Riordan finishes. "The older Wardens usually convene and decide who will make the final blow, to give the younger a chance to live their lives."

 

_Majesty, you should consider the possibility of the archdemon appearing._

_Isn't that what your men are for, Duncan?_

_Y-yes._

Maker's breath. Cailan hadn't known what he was saying. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, willing them not to tear. Hadn't I told Alistair that if I had to choose between him and killing the archdemon, I would kill the archdemon?

Yes, but I hadn't known we would need to _choose_ which of us survived without the other.

"Evie." Riordan takes my hands in his, and he forces me to look at him. "I will make that final blow if I can. You and Alistair must rebuild the order here in Ferelden. I don't have enough time in me to do that even if I should survive the battle." I nod and take another deep breath. If he makes eye contact with me, I will—blast it. "But if I don't make it that far, it falls to one of you."

I don't need to stop and wonder which of the two of us is more expendable. If Riordan fails, I will kill the archdemon. If Riordan fails, _I_ will die, and Alistair will lead Ferelden and rebuild the order.

 

So much for my list.

 

When I can no longer hold back the tears, Riordan pulls me toward him and wraps me in his arms. "I'm sorry, Evie. I hoped you knew."

...Maker's mercy, how can I possibly tell Alistair? I lean into Riordan's hug and will my mind to shut down, at least for a little while.


	20. Shredding the List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that made both my betas hate life. c:

The archdemon is screaming. I come to in the darkness, on cold stone, and for a few terrifying seconds I believe that I'm back in the Deep Roads. But I'm not alone, my nerves insist. My head is resting in someone's lap, and there's a heavy hand on my shoulder.

Alistair?

No. Riordan. The body under mine is warm with wiry muscles rather than bulky, but my nerves insist that it feels familiar despite the fact that I barely know the man. I must have fallen asleep while crying about—good, just what I want to remember when I wake up.

My companion jolts awake seconds later, fingers clenching into the cloth of my gown. When he realizes that I'm awake, his hand runs once over my sleeve in apology. "He is angrier than usual tonight."

"The archdemon?" I rise to a sitting position and stretch my neck. "Can you understand him?"

"Yes. Be glad that you cannot." Riordan rises with a tired sound and helps me to my feet. "I believe we have been alone too long, and your fellow nobles will sense scandal."

I shake my head. "We are Grey Wardens. I shall be amazed if they think twice about our absence." I feel for Duncan's shield in the gloom and nearly bruise my knuckles on its edge when I find it. Riordan takes it from me without my asking and carries it back for me. Any other day I would have protested, but we're both too exhausted to speak.

The estate is dark and quiet by the time we return. The only member of my party waiting to greet us is Absolon, who nearly tackles me in relief when I come into view.

"What were you worried about?"

He growls at Riordan, and I scowl. "Oh, hush."

I take Duncan's shield and Absolon to my suite and crawl into bed beside Morrigan, who doesn't stir. They must have broken out the wine after we left. Her heavy sleep becomes increasingly embittering as the hours press on, and when I can see sunlight through my window I give up entirely and strap myself into my armor.

Breakfast at the Guerrin estate has always been an informal affair. The servants bring food to those who sit, and due to the lack of an official start time, all of the estate's visitors are rarely present at the same time. Alistair, Leliana, and Zevran appear to have risen early, as well, and so we all greet the dawn together over hot drinks, pastries, and meat.

"Our Wardens are looking exceptionally tired," Zevran observes.

I glower at him over my apple. "Riordan says the archdemon was talking last night."

"And the circles under your eyes seem to agree!"

"Yeah," Alistair mutters, "it definitely had _something_ on its mind. I barely slept at all." He turns in his chair and looks down at me, pouting admirably. "Where did the two of you run off to, anyway? I tried to find you after Eamon was done with me for the night, and everyone said you both had left."

"He showed me a weapons cache in the city, and he answered some of my questions about the Grey Wardens." My prediction to Riordan proves correct: no one at the table gives this a second thought. And he'd been worried about damaging my reputation.

Alistair knows better than to ask for details in front of the others, but his eyes still spark with interest when he hears me mention _answers_. "Catch me up later, alright?"

I nod and hide my fear of that conversation behind a Cousland smile. "Do you think you shall have time for me today, or is Eamon determined to keep you from me forever?"

He gives a quasi-hysterical laugh. "You know, I think he might be, but—no. No. We'll have time to talk today, I promise." He takes my hand and squeezes it. "A-are you okay, though? You look _really_ tired, Evie."

I scowl irritably. "Maker's breath. This is doing nothing for my self-esteem, you know."

"Nonsense," replies a voice from the door. "I promise that the two of us look far worse than you, Evie."

"Ah, Riordan," grimaces Alistair, dropping my hand from where he held it under the table. "Just as I was about to leave. Fancy that."

Zevran follows Alistair out of the room, and Leliana entertains Riordan as I work on finding food that my stomach seems willing to keep down. My senior Warden keeps glancing at me sideways, but says nothing. I finish eating when he does, and as he leaves "on another day of errands. The life of a Warden is truly enthralling," Leliana puts a hand on my shoulder and murmurs in my ear.

"I think you need a girls' day. Let's go to your room, and I will brush your hair."

Such things shouldn't be soothing, but they are. As soon as the teeth of the comb begin working their way along my scalp, my shoulders relax, and I sag backward against her tiredly.

"Thank you, Lel."

"You may be able to fool the others, but I see that something is wrong, you know." When my shoulders tense again, she rests her hands on them and rubs them reassuringly. "No, I'm not going to ask. If you want to talk about it, we can. If not, consider it a warning that the others might catch on if you are not careful."

I don't speak until she has finished brushing out my hair and is busy braiding it into pigtails.

"How did you feel when you sought refuge in the chantry?"

"Like the world was ending," she replies in a light voice. When I don't say anything else, she turns my face to hers. "I was going to the chapel after this. Do you want to come along?"

My family had never been incredibly religious, and compared to someone like Leliana my personal faith seems like nothing at all. But I have little desire to be alone, so I agree. She walks me through several prayers with her, but all I can think of is later, when I'll need to tell Alistair about what happens when a Grey Warden kills an archdemon.

It's as though thinking about him summons him: Alistair finds us in the chapel, and smiles at me in bemusement when he sees me kneeling on the floor beside Leliana.

"Are you asking the Maker for a good night's sleep? Let me know if it works. He never gives me anything I want," he grins.

I rise and draw Alistair further away so that he doesn't disturb Leliana's meditations. "You pray to the Maker?"

"Sure, for things like socks that never get wet, sober dwarves, and for Morrigan to wake up mute," he grins.

I giggle despite myself. "You might want to try asking for things that have a chance of happening."

"But then they wouldn't be miracles." He takes me by the hand and leads me toward my suite. "What were you asking for?"

"Courage."

"You?" He laughs and shoves me in the shoulder. "Courage? Don't you have enough of that already?"

"We will find out," I mutter, but Alistair does not notice. Come to think of it... "Are you _sweating_?"

"I—I, no! Well, yes. I am."

I sit on the edge of the bed, but he doesn't join me as is his habit. I cross my arms and frown at him in concern. "Are you ill?"

"No. Eamon's just been driving me insane. That's what I wanted to talk to you about, actua—hey, what's that?"

I follow his gaze and see Duncan's shield, propped against the wall. I'd completely forgotten about it. "A present for you. Riordan found it yesterday and passed it along to me."

"It's Duncan's, isn't it?" He falls to the floor and inspects it. "I'd know it anywhere."

I nod. "For some reason, seeing it hurts more than finding his blades."

He shakes his head. "We were prepared for the worst at Ostagar. Finding something of his in Denerim is... wow." Alistair's eyes meet mine, and he gives me a sad smile. "Thanks, Evie. I mean it. For this, and for always thinking of me. For everything, really."

The room goes silent as his words bring more memories of my father to mind. I came across him late one night on my way to the kitchens to sneak a snack for Absolon, sitting in an armchair by the main hall fire. In his main hand he had a glass of wine, and in the other, a rumpled letter. When I approached, he looked at me, but did not smile, and I felt something cold develop in my stomach.

Mother had her Cousland smile to hide behind, which I had adopted without realizing it when still very young. Father had his sense of humor; no matter what was going on within his mind, he was always smiling and cracking jokes. It made him seem invincible. But that night his defenses were entirely down, and I crawled into his lap without thinking about it even though I was years too old for it to be comfortable.

"Ah, pup. Bann Gwenael is dead." He rested his head on my hair, and I wrapped my arms around his neck. The bann had been one of his childhood friends. At the time, I couldn't understand why he wasn't crying.

"Is that what the letter says?"

Father shook his head. "No. This is the last letter he wrote me. He knew he was sick, according to the message I received today, but there's no mention of it here. Well.... "

"Well?"

He ruffled my hair. "A lesson for you, pup. When someone says 'thanks for everything,' they're either dying or about to betray you. Now go get your dog a snack before Nan catches you out of bed and we both get a scolding."

_When someone says "thanks for everything," they're either dying or about to betray you._ I glance at Alistair sharply. Had Riordan told him about killing the archdemon, as well? Was he about to try to convince me to let him be an idiot and take the final blow?

Alistair's gaze falls to the floor. "I don't know how to tell you this."

He _had_. I should have told Riordan to leave this conversation to me. "Tell me what?"

"Arl Eamon has been hounding me for two days, now. He wants me to marry Anora."

At those words, I sink fully back against the bed, feeling relief flood my core. Not quite what I expected. But still better than learning he had decided to kill the archdemon himself out of some misguided desire to keep me safe.

"Typical of him. I cannot believe his gall for going behind my back, though," I sigh. Eamon and I will be discussing that later.

"...I'm wondering if he's right."

 

_What_?

 

I blink and force my brain to keep thinking, but those five words have utterly shattered my veneer, and I can feel my eyes growing wide. "You're joking."

He shakes his head. "Eamon thinks that we have a better chance of deposing Loghain this way, and that Ferelden will be stronger with a Theirin king and a queen who already knows how to rule. It won't— won't be as big of a change for the nobles," he finishes in a rush.

"And you just... decided he was right?" I should be angry, but the emotion refuses to actually surface from beneath the exhaustion suffusing my bones. "Are you telling me that you _actually_ are considering marrying Anora?"

"I don't know!" he shouts, running his hands through his hair. "I'm so confused. You always tell me how we have to put duty before pleasure as Grey Wardens, but don't kings have to do that, too? Can I actually make a decision that might endanger the entire country because it makes me _happy_? Who's to say having two Grey Wardens on the throne won't cause another civil war after the Blight? Half the nobles were against Maric's decision to allow us to rebuild!"

I can hear Eamon's voice behind Alistair's words, but his jaw is set and his expression is grim, which suggests that he's considered this long enough to agree with them. I force my breathing to stay even so that my voice remains level. "It sounds like you made your decision, then."

His mouth falls open, and he stares at me in dismay. "What, you're not going to fight me on this?"

"...Should I?"

"Sod it, Evie, you're supposed to be changing my mind!"

_There_ is my rage. When I speak again, my voice sounds strained. "If you can't manage to decide on your own which woman you should marry," I snap, "perhaps you shouldn't be king _at all_!"

"But it's not just _my_ decision! Being a king is exactly like being a Grey Warden! I can't be selfish about one and selfless about the other."

 

_I will make that final blow if I can. But if I don't make it that far, it falls to one of you_.

 

I close my eyes and shut out the room and my lover's distress.

I saw the archdemon in the Dead Trenches. I have no hope that one Warden alone will be able to bring it down. There's no guarantee that Riordan will survive, or that I will, by extension. It would be cruel to put Alistair on the throne without someone to aid him. When I convinced him to become king, I promised I would be there with him. But that is a promise that I now know may be impossible to keep.

Anora would be better than... nothing.

"You're right," I manage.

"...But I _love_ you, Evie."

I can't cry. If I cry, I'll change my mind and fling myself at him and scream until he promises to take it all back. I look at the floor and keep breathing, and focus on the garish pattern of the rug.

"I know I promised you I'd be there for you," he says at last. "I can still do that. I can still help with your list—" When I hold up a hand to silence him, he sighs, and then resumes pacing the floor.

Eventually he speaks again, and this time he sounds angry. "I've been making myself sick all morning, worrying about how I was going to tell this to you and live with myself when you started crying. I vowed to myself the night we saved Redcliffe that I would never make you cry again, you know. Now I feel _stupid_."

My eyes meet his, and he continues speaking. "I mean, if you really loved me, you'd fight this, right?"

" _You_ didn't," I reply, staring down at my hands.

"Yes, well. I was waiting for you to prove that I'm not just a substitute for Duncan."

My jaw clenches. This again. We'd settled this on the docks at Redcliffe. Or I thought that we had, at least. Has he really been quietly doubting this _entire_ time?

When he sees the look on my face, he rubs at his forehead. "I shouldn't have said that."

"Did you mean it?"

"I—I don't know! I feel like I'm still in his shadow. You're always reminding me of what he would say, or do!" His words are rushing now, and tripping over themselves as he speaks. "Sometimes I catch you looking at your blades, and... you just look so _sad_. If he hadn't died, would we be...?"

"That is a _ridiculous_ question."

"Is it? You've given me his shield _and_ sword now. What's next, an earring? You've already got me in Cailan's armor, so why don't we just make me a walking shrine to all the dead men of your past? You've got your father's blade, and Duncan's dagger, and that monstrosity around your neck that you keep pretending is jewelry, but you don't walk around with anything from _me_."

My head is beginning to throb. "You gave me a _rose_. I keep it in my pack. It would be destroyed if—"

"What about one of my old rings, or a link from my Templar armor? Can't add those to your necklace?"

"...You're not _dead_."

"Is that what I have to do, then? Do I have to _die_ to get you to care about me like you do about everyone else?" He stops pacing abruptly and stares down at me from where he's standing on the rug. "Am I on the list, Evie? Do I get a statue, too? Or am I just useful to you?"

My eyes lock on his boots, and I have a brief urge to draw my knives. Instead, I force my jaw to unclench. "...Get out."

The instant the door clicks shut behind him I fall onto my side and curl into a ball on the bed, pulling my knees to my chin. The tears he seemed to want so badly come as soon as I relax into the bedding, but I keep my crying quiet. My door isn't locked, and anyone walking by might hear me if I start sobbing outright.

I want to be left alone. I want to be left alone, so of course mere minutes later someone knocks on my door. "Evie?"

Teagan. Facing anyone in the party would be too painful, but Teagan's voice restokes my rage and makes my tears fade. If he had a part in—no. No, I'll at least _ask_ before turning my wrath on a childhood friend. "Come in."

"Eamon wants to talk with us about the plan for the Landsmeet tomor—Maker's breath. Are you... have you been crying, Evie?"

I sit up on the bed and begin wiping my cheeks dry. The action makes me feel like a little girl, especially with him standing over me. "Did you have anything to do with it?"

He blinks and sits beside me gingerly. As he turns his head to face me, his braid falls heavily against his cheek. "With what? What happened?"

There's no good way to explain it to him. "...Eamon managed to convince Alistair to marry Anora." My eyes burn as I spit the words out. I wait for a flicker of guilt, but when Teagan meets my eyes, all I see is dismay. My trust in my old friend hasn't been misplaced, then; he didn't support Eamon and goad Alistair in the hopes of freeing my hand for another attempt at winning it. I'm at once relieved and guilty for suspecting him.

"I would _never_ , Evie." He squeezes my shoulder and looks down at me earnestly. "And if I'd known, I would have stopped—how convinced? Are you sure?"

When I nod, the tears start up again, but he doesn't laugh at me like he would have if we were still children. Instead, he opens his arms, politely offering a hug, and I slump against him resignedly.

"I... Maker, I'm trying to process this. You two are so happy, and—you had no warning?"

Maybe there was. There _probably_ was, but I've been more focused the upcoming Landsmeet than the moods of my companions. Had he been out of sorts at breakfast?

"He can make his own decisions, you know."

"Well, he chose a fool time to figure that out," Teagan snarls. "I should go talk some sense int—"

Those words inspire panic for many reasons. My fingers dig into his shirt, and I shake my head violently. "No! I don't want to be alone."

"Hush," he replies, tightening his arms around me. "You are hardly alone. Let me at least send a servant to tell Eamon that you have been detained, and I will stay here with you as long as you need."

By the time he returns, I've stopped crying and am already thinking of matters like _damage control_ and how to mitigate the reactions of my companions. They'll find out soon, and they won't understand, but explaining it to them would increase the risk that Alistair learns how Grey Wardens kill archdemons.

Alistair _won't die_. Not only do I refuse to allow it, but it's the only thing on my list that I still have the potential to control. And so I need to find a way to keep my companions civil.

Teagan sits beside me once more and throws an arm around my shoulders with a sad smile. "And just like that, you're together again. Cousland strength always astounds me, you know." When I make a derisive noise, he continues. "We used to give you and your brother the worst beatings at games, and you never backed down."

"Fergus always said I was too stubborn for my own good, especially when it came to you and Cailan."

Teagan laughs. "And now you're _better_ at everything than I am. I'm taking the credit, if you don't mind."

I'm about to retort, and then I realize that I really _don't_ mind. "I'm glad you're not dead," I sigh, and rest my head against his shoulder.

"As morbid as it sounds, I'm glad you're not, either."

There's one more item I can keep on my list, at least: my friends _will_ survive to see the end of the Blight. My future is certain for that long, assuming I stop crying in my room like a little girl and prepare for the Landsmeet instead.

"Make an excuse to Eamon, please," I tell Teagan. "I need to get some fresh air."

He agrees, then leaves me alone to pace and think. I need to know what I am getting myself into. I need to know what to expect tomorrow.

I need to do something very stupid.

...I need a gown. Blast it. I ring for a maid and have her lace me into one. A _blue_ one, but there is nothing for it: the Cousland colors are blue and white, as are the Grey Warden colors. Occasionally, a statement must be made. Unfortunately, my mother spent the night before every formal gathering in my childhood ordering me to make such statements, and I wearied of the color as a result. No place for knives, which makes me feel rather naked.

"Would you like me to redo your hair, your ladyship?"

I glance into the mirror and frown; I'd forgotten about Leliana and her _pigtails_. I look like a twelve-year old.

...Then again.

"No, that will be all." The maid leaves, and I stare at my reflection again. No armor, no weapons. I'll at least need the next best thing, which I find lounging in the library.

"Zevran," I call from the door, snatching his attention from the book he is reading.

"You know, I had a dream that started like this just last night," he replies, closing the book with a snap.

"I need you to come with me. You are good at hiding weapons, correct?"

"One might say I excel at it." His look turns hopeful. "Does someone need killing?"

I shake my head. "I need protection. Change into plainclothes, please. For tonight, you are my manservant."

He shrugs. "Fair enough. Ask, and I shall follow, but several steps behind, if you don't mind. The tailoring on that dress is _exceptional_."

Glib words fail him when Zevran realizes that our destination is the palace. When I request an audience with Teyrn Loghain, he stares at me as though I've gone mad. Perhaps he's right. When we enter the room, he fades into the shadows by the door, doing a passable imitation of a Fereldan servant, but I still feel safe: he brought an extra knife. If the worst comes to worst, both of us will be armed, and the meeting room is near a side door I remember from my childhood.

I never thought the time Fergus, Cailan, and I spent plotting escape routes from "surprise Orlesian attacks" would prove useful in my adulthood.

Loghain appears to agree with Zevran's assessment of my mental state. "What is to stop me from throwing you in the dungeons this instant?" he asks as he enters, looking to me with the eyes of a man who has not slept well in months.

_Nothing_ isn't the appropriate answer. "It would do you little good the night before the Landsmeet, especially considering how upset the nobles are already."

His eyes lock on my pigtails, and he frowns. "Yes, you've been rather busy since you arrived in town. Tell me, is it some skill of the Wardens, or Cousland trickery that is bending them to your will?"

"All I do is tell them the truth, Loghain."

He paces again, then whirls on me. "Why are you here?"

There's a chair near the door with its back to the wall. I sit in it carefully, folding my hands in my lap. "I want to know why you did it. I have wondered for months, and still have no answer. How could a man like you become so power-hungry?"

Loghain's lip curls, and he takes two steps closer. "You can't fool me, Warden. I know why the Orlesian Wardens want to swarm our land with legions of chevalier at their backs! I will _not_ see this country lost to the Empire again so soon!"

I recognize that look in his eyes: it was the same look Duncan would get when he spoke of duty, and how nothing mattered except stopping the Blight. Whatever answer I expected to receive tonight, I hadn't considered that Loghain would actually _believe_ it. Arl Howe was sadistic, and craved power... but Loghain honestly thinks that I'm the enemy.

It's not a ploy. Rather, the Hero of River Dane has gone mad. "And Cailan?"

"Cailan was weak. He had always been weak. He was offering us to Orlais on a silver platter, literally inviting the troops in with open arms." Loghain shakes his head. "I couldn't let that happen. Ferelden deserves better! Why can't you all _see_ that?"

"What if we are right, and you are mistaken?"

"Then I will have much to atone for in the eyes of the Maker." His eyes narrow, and he points at me. "But _you_. You have kept our country divided. It is because of you that the south has fallen. It is because of you that our queen is missing! And tomorrow, you will finally meet justice."

"One of us will, at least." I never expected to feel pity for the man that killed Cailan, Duncan, Fergus, and countless others. I came expecting to be angry, and to shout, and watch his facade fall just as Howe's had. But Loghain isn't evil; he's a misguided fool. And because he's a misguided fool with _power_ , he allowed thousands to be slaughtered, and nearly ruined us all.

"Thank you," I say to his back as he paces. "That is all I wished to know."

He rounds on me again. "Get out. And be sure to take that assassin with you."

"Ah, you recognized me?" Zevran looks up from where he was pretending to study the floor.

"It's that ridiculous tattoo, elf."

Zevran smiles and steps closer to me. "One wonders why you let us in, then."

"If you failed at killing her, you're no threat to me. Now _get out._ "

"Until tomorrow, teyrn," I murmur, and rise to leave. I can feel Loghain's eyes on my back as Zevran and I exit the room, but we're not challenged as we wind our way through the halls.

"Reckless, my Warden," Zevran hisses as we exit the palace.

"And yet necessary," I retort. "Now I know what to expect at the Landsmeet."

"Oh?" He tugs on a pigtail. "We'll make a bard of you after all."

I smile, but my heart isn't in it. I was prepared to face a politician, to bring down a usurper, to overthrow an upstart. A Cousland could do such a thing without issue. But nothing in my life has prepared me to confront a madman disguised as a king. Exposing the machinations of a politician is endlessly different from opposing a true _believer_. Politicians can be outmaneuvered, but madmen would rather die than fail.

There will be blood tomorrow, that much is certain. But not my friends'...and not Alistair's. Not if I have my say. I _will_ do this one thing before I die.


	21. Face Your Maker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you hate Evie a little (or a lot) over the next couple chapters, then I'm doing something right.

I gather everyone together a few hours before the Landsmeet to discuss what's likely to happen. They stare at me expectantly, and I open my mouth to say the hardest words of my life.

"Eamon, Teagan, Alistair, Anora, and I have discussed this, and have all agreed that it will be wisest for Alistair to marry the queen should he win the throne."

A noticeable chill develops amongst my companions as they process what I've said. "My Warden," Zevran interrupts, "I had rather expected someone else was meant to be his queen." Leliana glances sideways at Anora, who very suddenly refuses to meet my eyes. So the queen had known, as well.

"The prince has decided that would be an unwise decision," I reply. "I will abide by his opinion."

Several seconds of silence, marred only by Alistair shuffling his feet. Finally, he turns to Eamon. "I can't—sod it, you do this for me, alright?" He ignores the arl's protests and storms down the hall.

A night of sleep and ample discussion with Teagan, as well as a few unkind words to Eamon in his study this morning, has left me feeling more grounded. I'm able to continue on as though nothing has happened. _Thank you, Mother_. "There is no guarantee that we will succeed today. If we do not, it is very likely that we will be fighting our way out of the palace. Because of this, I am taking three of you with me."

"Only three?" Sten scowls. "That is hardly a sufficient number against the palace guard."

"Any more will seem threatening. Alistair will be with me, naturally, and I would also like Leliana and Wynne to come along." When Zevran and Sten frown, I shake my head. "I am sorry, my friends, but you are not human, and some of the nobility are... easily flustered."

Zevran shrugs. "I have no wish to be in the same room as Loghain again. It seems like tempting fate!"

"Majesty." I turn my gaze to Anora, who starts guiltily. At least she has the good sense to appear awkward. "I expect it will be best for you to show up separately. I believe Eamon plans to loan you some of his personal guard."

"Thank you," she replies. "That is very kind of you both."

"Evie," Riordan cuts in. "I would like to come with you. I am worried about the state of the Warden's headquarters."

"You are free to do as you wish, Warden. You outrank me, after all."

"In age, yes. But there is no question which of us is the leader." He smiles, but his words make me feel old and tired. No wonder Duncan always seemed so—but no, thinking of Duncan is embittering after Alistair's words yesterday.

Before we leave, I have Leliana brush and style my hair into a twist. It would be unsafe to wear a gown, but there are ways to look noble even in armor, as my mother used to love to tell me. My leathers have been cleaned and polished, and every rivet shines.

The streets are thick with people when we leave Eamon's estate. They appear to have turned out to watch the nobles travel to the palace. The staring eyes manage to make my companions nervous, even Leliana, but to me they're a timely reminder of what I need to be at the Landsmeet. I feel my chin lifting, my shoulders straightening, and my stride lengthening, all subtle ways to project the confidence I'll need for this to work. Alistair, on the other hand, appears to retreat into his armor, and by the sound of it is scuffing his feet. It will be up to Anora to seem competent if the two of them are to rule.

That's... less than ideal.

Eamon and Loghain are already deep in debate when I arrive; I can hear them through the door. The clink of armor and timbre of his voice suggests that Loghain is pacing like an injured animal. Riordan takes his leave of us in the atrium, and I throw open the doors to the Landsmeet chamber and stride forward while ignoring the startled gasps my presence elicits from the crowd.

"Isn't that the youngest Cousland? I thought they were all dead!"

"Maker's mercy, the Grey Wardens are here!"

Loghain meets my eyes and appears entirely unsurprised to see me. His personal guard flank him on either side, but draw no weapons; perhaps last night's gamble paid off, after all.

He's less polite now that there is an audience to play. Alistair is called a puppet for the Orlesians, as though the Grey Wardens and Orlais are one and the same. They appear to have fused in his mind, which few of the nobles seem to follow. When I retort that anything is better than a regent who has the nobility captured and tortured, he accuses me of murdering Arl Howe.

I take a deep breath. "You are right; he should have been arrested for his crimes, teyrn." I gently emphasize the word. "But he attacked me first, after admitting to murdering my father for pleasure and personal gain."

"Ah, yes, self-defense." Loghain's voice carries well. "You forget, perhaps, that I saw you attempt to attack him in Eamon's own estate not one week ago."

"I fear I lost my temper. Seeing the man responsible for the death of one's entire family tends to be hard on the nerves. But perhaps _you_ will remember that it was Alistair, another Warden, who had me taken from the hall for Howe's sake?" Alistair winces and smiles awkwardly at the nobles who turn to look at him at mention of his name.

The crowd is murmuring in agreement with me, and so Loghain switches tactics and accuses me of kidnapping Anora. She chooses that moment to step from a side door and defend me herself, and I see a stir of anger among the nobles who had still been supporting the regency. They begin shouting that they will stand with the Wardens, and the call grows in strength quickly.

That's when I see the glint of silver metal through the door Anora used to enter. Eamon's guards have darker armor. Loghain has reinforcements, and as emotions surge, I see his arm raise to give the signal. No. The nobles are pure-blooded Fereldans, and will enter the fray unarmored. More innocents will be slaughtered. "Stand down gracefully, Loghain, please!"

His wild eyes turn to mine. "You're all fools! I'd rather die than see the land Maric fought for lost to the Orlesians!"

"Call off your men," I insist. "Let us settle this alone."

He likes this idea; it appears to appeal to his sensibilities. Either that, or he wants to kill me so badly that he's blind to the risk of single combat with someone my age. Perhaps he still sees the girl who used to follow Cailan like a hungry cat, not the veteran soldier who has brought down enemies six times his size. But the nobles agree, and we face off in the middle of the chamber, the spectators forming a nervous ring around us. My companions have the gall to look _worried_.

They shouldn't have bothered; Loghain is a powerful man, and a brilliant tactician, but in single combat his style suffers. I cripple his mobility by denting the bottom of his fauld in toward his thigh with the hilt of my father's sword, and he loses range of motion on his right side. A low blow—one I learned from Zevran, in fact—but his sword swings are powerful, and I'm fighting without a helmet.

In many ways, dueling him is like sparring with a shorter Sten: he's powerful, but slower, and his longsword gives him a frustrating reach. I keep us moving around the circle, never pausing, and soon sweat is beading on his forehead. He tries to bash me with his shield, but I dodge out of habit from practicing with Alistair—

—and move directly into a thrust meant to lose me the use of my main hand. I twist, and the blade doesn't sink as deeply into my shoulder as it could have, but it cuts through leather and skin and flesh and sends blood running down my arm, making my grip slick. He shifts his weight, preparing to lunge forward and drive it deeper, and I kick him squarely in the chest, sending us staggering apart as the sound of boot on metal echoes through the chamber. My father's sword slides from my hand, and I cross my dagger in front of me and prepare for his next move.

Loghain is losing patience: he rushes me, and I duck out of the way, hitting him on the back of the head with the pommel of my dagger. He staggers to his knees, and I move in, sliding the blade between his neck and his pauldron. If he moves, it will cut his jugular.

"Enough," he gasps. "I yield. I have underestimated you."

"I accept," I reply, and am rewarded by him staring up at me in shock.

"What?" Alistair's eyes narrow, and he surges forward from the crowd. "You can't let him live!"

"Yes, she can, and should!" Anora retorts, coming forward as well. "Do you think Ferelden has generals to spare?"

"This general is the _reason_ we don't have any to spare!"

Loghain's sword falls from his hand, and he gives a heavy sigh as it clatters to the floor. He looks to me, patiently waiting for my reply, and I feel a chill when I realize that he'll accept whatever decision I make.

_Traitor. Disloyal. Betrayer_. I've called him all these things. And yet here he is, following the rules. He's an _honest_ madman. I was entirely unprepared for that. I sheath my knife and clutch at my shoulder, attempting to staunch the bleeding. Wynne catches the motion and comes to my aid, silently healing the wound from a distance. "He is a madman, Alistair. He believes everything that he has said here."

"Is that supposed to excuse him from murdering thousands? What about Dun—" he stops himself.

"No, it is _not_ an excuse. But I cannot kill him for being misguided."

" _Misguided_?" Alistair's eyes widen in rage.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to find Riordan beside me. The sneaky—how did he get in here? The guards must have been as distracted by the duel as the nobles. "Let us make him a Warden, then."

"No! _No!_ " Alistair shouts. "Never! Evie, tell me you're not considering that!"

Riordan and I look at one another, and I think of the archdemon. One more Warden... one more chance to live. "If Loghain joins the order, it would validate us. It would undo all his lies."

"But he _killed_ Duncan! He killed Cailan! And you just want to... reward him?"

"Since when has this been a reward?" I reply quietly, glancing down at my blood, thickening and pooling on the ground. I shall have to warn the servants—no, perhaps I should clean it myself, just to be safe. What are the nightmares a reward for? The ache that comes from ignoring the archdemon's call? No. The word he's looking for is _sacrifice._

"Don't do that, Evie." His eyes meet mine pleadingly. "You know as well as I do that our duty is an honor, and having him among our ranks would cheapen us!"

"What happened to 'we do what we must to stop the Blight'?" Again, we skirt Duncan's name.

"Would you have allowed _me_ to recruit Howe?"

I want to be angry. Of _course_ I would have, knowing what I—but no. No, my rage insists. I would rather have killed the archdemon myself and left Alistair alone for the remainder of his life than see Arl Howe stand redeemed for the slaughter of my family. For all my talk of selflessness, I would have been as selfish as Alistair is being now, and so I can't fault him for it. My shoulders sag, and I move to pick up my father's sword from the ground.

"No!" Anora shrieks. "You can't do this!"

"It is up to the Warden to decide," Eamon calls. "She has won the duel, and the Landsmeet must abide by her choice. Even you, Majesty."

"Anora," Loghain calls. "It is done. Do it, Warden, and the Maker will tell me which of us was correct."

...Maker's blood, I wish he were fighting this. He looks at me patiently, awaiting my decision from where he's kneeled on the floor. Seeing his willingness to die at my word accentuates my own desire to live. I feel like Wynne. There's too much for me to _do_.

I sheath my sword. "Alistair, a word, if you please." As he steps closer, I beckon Riordan to join us and turn my back on the crowd.

"Killing the archdemon ends the life of the Grey Warden who takes the final blow." To ensure that no one else hears me, I'm forced to step in to what would have been a comfortably close range before yesterday. Now, having him so close to me makes my skin prick awkwardly.

"What?" He opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. "Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

My eyes narrow. "I was rather distracted by personal matters." Alistair drops his gaze to the floor and begins fidgeting with a gauntlet. "If you insist that I kill Loghain now, you are condemning me and Riordan to death. At least one of us, with absolute certainty."

Alistair glances over his shoulder at Anora. "Why can't I be the one to—"

"Because that would be _selfish_ ," I hiss, "and if you are determined not to be so, you _cannot_ die. Ferelden needs a king. And sparing Loghain for now would protect the Wardens who actually matter."

"If he even survives the Joining," Riordan sighs. "He is older than we prefer for recruits."

"But if he kills the archdemon, he becomes a legend! He'll be redeemed! Do you really want him to be the hero of an order he slaughtered?"

I shake my head. "No. But I also do not wish to die. And the Wardens will not care."

His eyes narrow. "They won't—let me guess, more 'do what it takes to stop the Blight?'"

Enough of this. I grab him by the wrists and force him to look at me. "You asked me if I would want to recruit Howe if our situations were reversed. No. But I wouldn't ask you to _die_ so that I could have my revenge!"

"I—" He looks from me to Riordan, and then shakes his head. "Fine. Let him undergo the Joining, and if he survives... I'll... deal with it somehow. Just don't—don't make me be near him. Every time I look at him I see Duncan and the others and I want to _die_ , Evie."

"I understand."

Loghain is still kneeled, but is now staring intently at the floor. He doesn't blink nearly as often as he should.

"Lords and ladies," I call, and the nobles fall silent and turn to me. "I have decided to make Loghain a Grey Warden." He stares at me in shock, and I reach out a hand to help him from the floor. "He will pay for his crimes by helping save us from the Blight."

He takes me by the hand, and I pull him to his feet while he continues to stare at me. "Why?" I shake my head.

"Riordan, will you show him out while we conclude here?"

"Yes, Warden." He gives a remarkably formal bow and takes Loghain by the upper arm. The teyrn allows himself to be led from the hall, and the other nobles turn to me once he's out of sight.

"It is my understanding that Queen Anora and Alistair intend to marry and rule alongside one another." My voice nearly cracks, but I mask the sound with a smile, so that the change in tone seems pleasant rather than distraught.

"You are correct, Warden." Anora still doesn't quite meet my eyes. Instead, she turns to Alistair and waits for him to respond.

"Y-yes," he stammers.

I close my eyes and shut them both from my sight. "Then that is what I decide."

The hall becomes a maelstrom of voices and plans, but Teagan finds me and shows me out. "Anora can handle the politics," he mutters, and scowls at Alistair when he calls after me from a throng of nobles. "We have to deal with Loghain and plan a war."

The Grey Warden headquarters at the palace has of course been decimated, but Loghain willingly tells me and Riordan where the items have been moved to. We find ourselves with the teyrn both moved into the arl's estate and us prepared for the Joining by late afternoon. Anora asks to witness the ceremony, and I'm pleased that Riordan is the one who refuses her request.

"I'm sorry, but only full Wardens can observe this rite." He closes the door to Eamon's study and shuts us off from the rest of them. Loghain pins Riordan with his gaze as soon as we are alone, and the Warden moves on quickly. "Evie, since you seem so intent on learning everything there is to learn as quickly as possible, would you care to lead us? Do you remember the words?"

Strange that he would ask; Alistair speaking them was one of the most nerve-wracking moments of my life, and because of that the words are likely the last thing I will remember before leaving this world for the Fade.

I take the cup in my hands and stand before Loghain, who studies me warily. "Loghain, we speak only a few words before the Joining, but they have been said since the first." His eyes meet mine, and I swallow nervously. "Join us, brother. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten... and that one day we shall join you." Perhaps sooner than expected, in fact.

Riordan nods reassuringly, and I pass the cup to Loghain.

My memories of this part are vague, and so when he clutches at his throat and gasps, I hope for the worst. But Riordan kneels beside him on the floor once he has fallen and assures me that he will live. "Now our task, instead of being impossible, is merely unlikely." He smiles at me, but I find myself unable to return it. This day has exhausted me.

"I will be in my suite. I need to—think," I tell him, and flee from everyone except Absolon.

Honestly, thinking is the last thing I intend to do. I can't remember the last time I was able to just _rest_ in a room and not worry about what needed to be done the next day. I _should_ be thinking about such things, but I'm too drained. I have an army of men, elves, and dwarves to lead against the darkspawn in the south, and an archdemon to kill. Hope has never warred so equally with dread within me. Between that and the fact that I just decreed my lover was to marry another woman, I have energy for nothing but vacancy.

Dinner sounds unappealing, so I don't change and go to the dining room when the servants send out the call. If I'm hungry later, I will simply have a plate brought to my room. I do tell one of the servants to inform Morrigan that she'll be sleeping with Leliana and Wynne tonight; when her eyes widen, I feel a surge of pity, but trust that she will not _actually_ be set aflame.

The only nightgown I have clean is a pale green atrocity Leliana talked me into purchasing with our filched money "to wear for Alistair!" The cloth is thin, the neckline both wide and low, and the sleeves have an unfortunate tendency to fall off my shoulders, which she insisted was the point. "It draws the eye to your breasts!"

"Wonderful," I muttered, but bought it all the same. I put it on now and am thankful that I'll be sleeping alone tonight; chances are high that I'll wake up half-out of the accursed thing because of the sleeves. At least I hadn't yet worn it for him, so it has no overly painful memories attached to it. Though after tonight, I doubt that I'll wear it again; it's colder than I'd prefer, and I have no one to wear it _for_ , in any case.

Absolon and a nearby blanket join me as I sit on the floor and lean my side against one of the couches. He rests his head in my lap, atop the throw, and I tell him what happened at the Landsmeet and how sorry I am that we haven't spent enough time together recently. He begins to growl shortly after this, and I think for a moment that I'm being admonished until I realize that he has turned his head toward the door.

There's a loud knock, and then it opens. I am expecting a worried Leliana, or disgruntled Morrigan, but the person looming in my door is Loghain, out of his armor, and looking pale and tired. "I want to speak with you," he begins, and then his eyes lock on the sleeve that has fallen off my shoulder.

Andraste's bodice. I tug it back into place irritably and try to pull my hair over as much bare skin as possible. "Come in."

"...I did not expect you to be already undressed. I'll come back later."

"There is no point," I sigh, and refrain from adding that if we are on the road together for long, it's very likely that he will see me naked while fighting something. It would be just my luck. "Come in."

He grumbles and closes the door behind him, moving to the couch opposite me. "There's a qunari standing outside the door to my room. He followed me down the hall."

I nod. "Sten. One of my companions."

"I was under the impression that you trusted me, despite my repeated attempts to kill you."

Yes, I'd forgotten about those. How many times has it been by now? Three? Four?

"He is not protecting  _us_ , Loghain."

He ponders this for a moment. "Ah." Absolon growls at him again, and he curls his lip in distaste. "Your... companions... have proven less than hospitable."

"Small wonder, since they have spent the last several months being told that you are the enemy."

"Yes, and strange for me to be a member of the order I am trying to protect the country from." He gazes around the room as he speaks, eyes darting from the books on the table to one of the instruments in the corner, left by Leliana days ago, to the bed, to the rug... Maker. Does he ever stop studying?

"Expect to have nightmares," I tell him at last, trying to remember how I felt just after my Joining. At Ostagar, where Duncan died because of Loghai—no. We do what must be done to stop the Blight.

...Duncan would be proud of me. "Nightmares?"

I nod. "Ask me about them tomorrow, if they worry you. You will also be hungrier for a while, and heal faster, need less sleep. " I trail off. "And you can sense darkspawn."

"Is that what the burning is? I feel like I need to _be_ somewhere, but I cannot quite tell where."

"If you left now, and followed that feeling, you would walk right to the archdemon."

He doesn't reply, and so I let the conversation drop. This day must have been harder for him to process than it was for me, and considering that I'm both sane and _still_ stunned, it seems polite to give him a moment to think.

I return to petting Absolon and let my thoughts wander, so I'm entirely unprepared for him to fall to his knees beside me and seize me by the wrists. Absolon snarls, rising to his feet, and I feel Loghain's fingers tighten.

"Call off your dog," he orders.

We stare at one another for several seconds before I conclude that if he does anything I don't appreciate, I'll simply tell Absolon to pin him to the floor. "Sit," I murmur, and he obeys me with a whine.

Loghain hauls on my arms, pulling me to my knees and forcing me to turn to face him. The shoulders of the blasted nightgown slip as I'm rearranged, leaving me both fuming and embarrassed.

"Maric always trusted the Couslands, especially your father. If you have any love for him at all, you will tell me the truth. Are the Wardens working with the Orlesian government?"

An angry glare is apparently not what he wanted. He pulls me closer and squeezes my wrists until my eyes water. "I will follow you no matter what, because the Landsmeet said it was to be so. But I need to know, girl."

"Let me go."

"Tell me the truth!" His eyes are wide, fixed on me unblinkingly. It's more than slightly disconcerting.

I look to the floor before responding. "My family was not working with the Orlesians. Neither were the Wardens."

He frees one of my hands and grabs me by the jaw, pulling my chin up and staring into my eyes. I force myself not to swallow nervously; Loghain's grip is strong, and the way he looms while I'm in this ridiculous gown makes me feel vulnerable.

"You're telling the truth," he says at last, and drops his hands to my shoulders, which is hardly an improvement. His hands are cold, and I shiver. At least he seems oblivious to the fact that his palms are touching my bare skin. "Howe came to me, and told me your father was planning to betray the throne for the Orlesians. When you joined the Wardens, who were asking to enter the country with chevaliers, it only reinforced my belief. And then Cailan... Cailan wouldn't listen to my warnings... and so I did what I had to for the good of Ferelden." His voice trails off, though his eyes continue wildly studying my face as his mind works through the implications.

Howe had seen Loghain's tendency toward paranoia, perhaps, and realized that it could be used to his advantage. All it took was one hook to pull him completely into madness.

"I have made a... tactical error," he concludes.

My pity fades. "You call murdering Maric's son and slaughtering an order that just meant to _help_ a 'tactical error?'"

His fingers tighten around my shoulders. "How could I have known? All I wanted to do was keep my country safe. I acted with the information available to me!"

"And without common sense to guide you," I retort. A mistake, for now he's angry. Absolon begins growling again when he notices the change in my posture, but the situation is saved by a knock at the door.

Or not saved. Alistair lets himself in, apparently oblivious to the fact that this is no longer appropriate. "Evie, can I talk to you? I think I'm going—"

And then his eyes meet Loghain's, and he freezes in the doorway. Loghain finally realizes where his hands are and releases my shoulders with a start, which does nothing to help the situation.

"What, are we having a sleepover? Are you going to do each other's hair?" Alistair's voice is merry, but his jaw is clenched. "Or is it your plan to have the new recruits give you shoulder massages from here on out?"

Loghain rises and turns to face Alistair. "It's a pity neither you nor Cailan inherited your father's sense of humor."

"If I catch you in here again, Loghain, I'll—"

The teyrn cuts him off. "Evelyn is more than capable of taking care of herself, whelp. There is no need to posture to me."

An accented voice sounds from behind Alistair. "What is going on here?"

Maker's breath, and now Riordan is in the doorway, staring at Loghain and Alistair. My nightmare is complete. I rise to my feet, fixing the shoulders of my gown yet again, and stare the three of them down. "Get out, all of you."

"But I—" Alistair begins. Loghain, to his credit, leaves the room without another word.

Riordan puts a hand on Alistair's shoulder. "I will talk to her for you." He steps into the room and closes the door behind him, completely ignoring the fact that I had told _all_ of them to get out. When I point this out, he merely smiles. "Believe me, you did not want to have that conversation. Now he will not bother you later."

His hair is still damp, as is his shirt—he must have been coming from the baths. Eamon had been wise enough to give the only guest rooms with private tubs to me and Anora.

"You weren't at dinner," he begins. "That worries me. A Warden your age should be eating."

I shake my head and sit down on the couch. Absolon, who is used to Riordan by now, retreats to his bedding in the far corner and begins circling. "I am not hungry."

He sits with me and rubs his temples. "Understandable, considering the day. I had the pleasure of witnessing your duel with Loghain, by the way. You are a beautiful fighter."

I smile despite myself. "Flatterer. You make it sound like you sneaked into the Landsmeet just to see it."

He lifts his head and stares at me. "I _did_." I must look confused, because he shakes his head. "So that is the problem. Until I learned about you and Alistair this morning, I thought that you were ignoring my advances."

"What?"

"But, it seems that you were simply... otherwise occupied."

Zevran's words from two days ago come to mind. My cheeks are flushing and there's nothing I can do to prevent it; that's how surprised he's made me. Curse this day.

He twists toward me on the couch and regards me soberly. "You're a strong woman, Evie. It's alluring. But the last few days have been hard for you, and if you want me to lead the troops and plan for battle, I'm more than willing to do so."

Another worry gone. I may have the _training_ for it, but I've never been responsible for the creation of a battle plan, or for leading an entire army. I sigh in relief and close my eyes, and can feel tension draining from me. "Please."

Riordan stretches out a hand and cups the side of my face. His thumb slides underneath my hair, along my neck and jaw. "Gladly."

My eyes come open at his touch, and we stare at one another for a moment. I should tell him no. I should tell him no even though he feels familiar against me, and his dark hair is lovely and his eyes are striking. He has the same body type as Duncan; that is the source of the familiarity. In truth, he's a near-stranger, and by all rights he shouldn't be in my room unescorted, Warden or no.

If he tried to kiss me, I would have been able to say it. But all he does is caress my neck and shoulders with his fingers, and _that_ reminds me that I'm sad. When I sag wearily against his chest, he begins running his hands through my hair like he had when my hand was being seen to. I listen to him breathe and let him soothe me with his fingers while the fire crackles and Absolon snores.

Odd, how relaxed it seems that he has made me, until he begins to push me back against the couch. Then, my nerves awaken, and the skin he has touched tingles pleasantly. The clean smell of his hair and the warmth of his skin through his clothes gains sudden appeal when our eyes meet again and he manages to make it clear with a single look what he intends to do. His fingers slide under the straps of my gown, easing them off my shoulders, and my eyes close as his hands grip bare skin. When he presses his lips to mine, I open my mouth willingly, and then give him full control.


	22. Territorial Pissings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is AO.

The fire has burnt low by the time I come to, and the room is dark. There's an arm around my waist, but not as heavy as I'm accustomed to, and the lips at my neck are surrounded by scruffy skin.

"...Riordan," I murmur, and my mind flashes through the past few hours of my night. The taste of his skin, the feel of his nails raking down my back, and the memory of the ruthlessness in his eyes as he bent me to his whims awaken a dull thrill between my hips that is exacerbated by the ache of my sore muscles and tooth-bruised flesh.

He runs his tongue along my neck to my ear. "Good morning."

Neither of us have had nightmares; it can't yet be morning. But he presses against my back insistently, and I shiver as my nerves begin responding to his touch. His hands, which had proven so clever hours before, begin sliding over my body, determinedly dragging me into consciousness. It works, which annoys me. "I was _asleep_."

"So wake up."

Teeth, now, at my neck, biting at already-tender skin. I gasp, which encourages him to turn me onto my back. When he straddles me, the action pulls the blankets away from my body, and the cold air of the room wakes me completely. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him to me, seeking the heat of his body. Riordan nips and sucks at whatever skin he can, doing his best to work me into a frenzy.

It's strangely effective. My eyes close heavily, and all I hear is us panting in the darkness. By the time he has become frustrated by the blankets covering us and flings them aside, the air of the room feels refreshing rather than cold. Maker's breath, my nerves must still be wound from earlier. He bites harder, and harder, and soon I find that I have the strength to fight back. My nails sink into his shoulders, and I roll, sending us both onto the floor.

Riordan hisses as his back hits the rug beside the bed, and I straddle him triumphantly, pinning his arms over his head. Perhaps he'll be nice enough to pretend that he can't—

He takes a nipple between his teeth and bites until I'm distracted, then sedates me with pleasurable tongue lickings until the last of the stinging has faded and all I'm aware of is how hard we both are breathing. By the time he has flipped me onto my back again, my thoughts are pleasantly numb, and my mind is blank to all but his heat.

"Please," I groan.

He gives a throaty chuckle in response. "What is it that you want, Evie?"

...An excellent question, but also not one I feel like considering in the present moment. "I don't care."

Riordan lunges between my thighs, and I whimper as his tongue laps confidently at sensitive flesh. When I bury my fingers in his hair and press him closer, he laughs again and increases his force until I'm gasping and twitching.

"Do you want to come?"

His words trigger a pang of sensation so strong I buck against his face with more force. "Y-yes," I manage.

"Then guide me," he orders, turning so that his body is pressed along mine, his cock directly in my face. He pauses his attentions until I've taken him into my mouth, and then his tongue begins to mimic my motions.

Brilliant. I swallow him hungrily, taking as much of him into my mouth as I can, and he responds by teasing his tongue between my folds and thrusting into me. When I buck against his face, he grinds against mine, and soon we're gasping and writhing on the floor. The head of his cock presses repeatedly against the back of my throat, but my mind is so focused on the sheer genius of his tongue that I don't gag. The groans I have the coordination to make are muffled, and when he feels my voice against his length he gasps in turn at the vibrations. We've both lost any sense of rhythm by the time I'm pushed over the brink. The room seems bright and cold except for his skin on mine, which burns deliciously.

I'm still reeling in aftershock when he turns me onto my stomach, pulls my hips to his, and thrusts, filling me completely. My body goes weak at the sensation and I curve, slumping under his weight. Riordan solves this problem by grabbing me by the wrists and pulling my arms back along my body, holding me up on my knees and pulling me toward him each time he pushes into me again. I give myself over to our rhythm, feeling my hair slide against my shoulders and my breasts bounce with each impact.

He bites at my back, encouraging me to moan, and then begins to pant and mutter in that rich, alluring voice of his, telling me how wonderful I feel and sound and what he likes best about the sight of my naked body beneath his. When these words make me tighten around him and groan in embarrassed pleasure, he moves on to telling me what he'll do to me over the course of nights ahead of us.

"Before the end, Evie," he concludes, pulling me back toward him again, "I will have had you in every way I can." He frees my arms, and I fall forward onto the carpet with a wail, but he still does not relent. He continues thrusting into me as his fingers slide along my ass, parting my cheeks and running his thumb up the split. When I shake my head in protest, he spanks me, and the resultant wave of pleasure sends me cresting over the brink once more. His hands wrap round my hips and he feels me shuddering against him; when I turn my head to look at him, he is smiling.

That smile. Those eyes. Those eyes can make anything seem sexy. Those eyes, and his fingers, which have slid between my thighs and are rubbing at me, keeping my nerves in a frenzy.

He likes to _listen_ , I realize. He likes to _talk_. And so I break my habit of swallowing my sex-hazed thoughts for the sake of my pride, open my mouth, and tell him what I'm thinking. How delicious his skin feels against mine, and the strength of his body as he pushes into me again and again. The way he breathes and how it makes me desperate to feel him come inside me.

Things that make _me_ blush.

But Riordan loves every second of it: his eyes slide closed, and his grip becomes bruisingly strong against my already-tender skin. When he finishes, we collapse together on the rug, and he arranges me in his arms without ever withdrawing from me. He presses his face into my hair, closes his eyes, and breathes, as though he is attempting to drown his senses with my body in every possible way.

I recognize his urgency, I realize sleepily, listening to his breathing deepen and feeling him relax against me. I had felt it in Duncan when he had lost resolve and continued bedding me on the road to Ostagar. Duncan had known that his end was near, and so it caused his reserve to crumble.

But Riordan is preparing to die in mere _days_ , in case my gamble with Loghain falls through. He's preparing to die for _me_ , if need be, so that I can rebuild the order. Small wonder that he wishes to saturate his nerves in such a fashion. I run my fingers along his forearms, petting him, and listen as he falls completely into sleep. How long had he been alone, in Howe's dungeon? What had been done to him there? And does he feel as responsible for his capture and subsequent failure of his order as Alistair had in the weeks following Ostagar?

I drift to sleep feeling strangely protective of my senior Warden. When we wake, however, all the tenderness that I had felt is long-gone. My hip is throbbing from sleeping on stone, and the maid who came to rouse me is traumatized from finding us naked and tangled at the foot of my bed. Then, I learn at breakfast that Eamon and Alistair left for Redcliffe the night before to begin preparations, and spend my meal wondering what Alistair had wanted to say to me. To further improve the morning, I learn when I hoist myself atop the gorgeous bay mare that Teagan selected especially for me that I'm _saddle- sore_.

A perfect way to begin our journey to Redcliffe. If my companions notice my odd seat, they give no sign. Granted, we're paying very little attention to one another: Riordan is with Teagan, planning for the battle and preparing messengers to be sent out to call for our forces to mass; Leliana is trying to coach Zevran in the finer points of Fereldan tack; and Oghren and Sten have refused mounts completely and are instead walking with Loghain's men, who have decided to follow the Wardens into battle against the Blight rather than take their chances with the disgruntled populace of Denerim. The teyrn's initial wish had been to leave his troops with Anora, but she assured him that the Royal Guard could handle the city.

None of us had pretended to be sad when we were told she had no intention of riding to war alongside us. Frankly, I find myself enjoying the break from her and Alistair both, though I spend the first two hours of our journey feeling nostalgic and alone.

Unfortunately, there are other sources of stress and annoyance at my disposal, and they do their best to make themselves plain. Loghain stares at me in disgust as he guides his unruly black beside me shortly after a water break. "I'd heard tales of your prowess on horseback from Cailan, commander. He appears to have been even a greater fool than previously believed."

_Sod it_. I kick the bay into a gallop, ignoring the protests of the guards Teagan meant as my entourage, and careen into the underbrush like I'm fourteen once more. Loghain's horse snorts and lurches after me, and he urges it forward with a guttural shout.

Riding wild again feels lovely, and I ignore my sore muscles and guide the bay around trees and over obstacles, seeking to put as much distance between Loghain and myself as possible. One of my favorite hobbies as a teenager had been losing Fergus in such a manner, then sneaking back to the castle and listening to Nan berate him for "misplacing" me again. I should have no trouble losing a man three times his age in a wood unfamiliar to him.

But this is _not_ unfamiliar ground, I realize when his horse draws beside me and he smiles wildly. He's not a noble like the boys I grew up playing games with. He's a warrior, and he has covered the land around Denerim countless times on horseback, that much is clear. Both our mounts have worked up a lather by the time I give up and turn back to the road. I'm the lighter burden, and my horse is younger. I'll lose him on a straight road, then.

My horse suddenly spins and rears, and I nearly lose my seat. As I cling to the saddle, my sore thighs shriek in protest. The bastard has leaned over and _taken my bay by the reins_.

"Well done," he laughs as our horses stumble to a stop together with us both still in our saddles.

"Yet again, you prove that any attempt you make at seizing control will kill those already in it," I gasp, clutching at my poor stomach muscles. "What in the Maker's name are you playing at?"

His smile fades. "Apologies, commander. I was testing you."

"That is hardly your place," I retort, snatching the reins from his hands and guiding my mare back into a walk.

He kicks his black, which leaps into place beside me, neighing nervously. "Wait."

I knee my bay into a canter and glance over my shoulder. "We need to get back to the others." _Maker,_ they shall think that I've gone mad.

Loghain shakes his head angrily and urges his horse beside mine once more. "I am tired of their scowls. At least you speak to me."

"So that is the mistake I have made, then."

His smile returns. "That, and you're pretty bloody good on a horse. I'm beginning to feel less shamed for losing to you."

Compliments, from Loghain Mac Tir? Mother would die of surprise were she here. My face hardens, and I remind myself that he is a large part of _why_ she's not. Howe may have done the deed, but Loghain made it possible.

He catches my expression and sighs. "I still wonder why you spared me. Each time we speak, I see my death in your eyes."

"You are currently more useful to me alive," I manage. This time when I urge my horse ahead, he follows behind me obediently. But I can feel his eyes on the back of my head, and I know that he's not blinking nearly as often as he ought.

Riordan and Teagan find me when we return to the main group. My senior Warden appears displeased by my recklessness, but the bann simply smiles and shakes his head at me fondly.

"I thought you might like to know what we have decided," Riordan tells me. "We have called for your troops to mass at Redcliffe, where we will march south to Ostagar and the Korcari Wilds to take the demon head-on."

"Are the darkspawn really so far south, still? Half the Bannorn has fallen."

"Yes, to skirmishers, but not the main horde. The archdemon is in the Wilds."

"Is it too risky to attempt an offense? Should we not meet them farther north, as they advance?"

Riordan frowns at me. "How many more villages do you want to endanger?" When I don't respond, he continues. "The distance between Redcliffe and Ostagar can be traveled in two days. There is little risk of us being outmaneuvered."

We are told the next day by a rather exhausted messenger that it will take a week for the troops to fully assemble, and so we take our time on the road. At night, Leliana sings for everyone, and Riordan sits beside me, running his fingers through my hair and over my shoulders, melting tension from my body and replacing it with a heat that leaves my cheeks flushed in shame. They all see it, and they all disapprove, but I allow myself to be led into his tent each night regardless and allow him to overwhelm my nerves however he desires. Wynne silently treats my aching muscles each morning, and then we continue riding.

The only one who seems unwilling to hold his tongue is Loghain. He falls beside me again on the fifth day, staring as usual. "I thought you were with the whelp," he says bluntly, and I resist the urge to take my heels to my horse again.

"I was, but he is going to marry your beloved daughter, as you are well aware."

I expect bile, but instead he rides quietly beside me for several minutes before responding. "I know what it feels like to put duty before love," he ventures at last.

I turn in my saddle and glare at him. "One would assume, since you murdered the husband of your daughter and the son of your best friend."

Loghain shrugs. "Anora would have done the same."

I don't like the look of warning on his face. "...Are you suggesting that Alistair will not be safe with her?"

"He will be, as long as he does not threaten her power."

"What do you mean?"

His wide eyes find mine. "Do you honestly think that I could kill my own daughter? I assume that is what she told you when she fled to Howe's and told him how to lure you to his estate."

My mouth goes dry. He sees my expression become carefully blank and smiles. "Yes, she used all three of us rather admirably, didn't she? But don't worry. He'll be a worthless king, which, now that I'm under _your_ thumb, will ensure that he has a long life, indeed."

This time he doesn't follow when I urge my horse into a gallop. I don't return to the main group until sundown.

That night, Riordan and I settle in for first watch, and Zevran approaches us, frowning. "My friend," he says to Riordan, "allow me to take your shift from you tonight."

He returns the frown. "Is there a reason that I should?"

"Consider it a challenge. I want to see how long you can go without laying your hands on our Evie." He smiles, and Riordan rises and stalks away without another word.

I shake my head at Zevran. "Was that necessary?"

He nods and sits down beside me, as close as Riordan but with an infinitely different intent. "It got him away from you, did it not? And now we can talk." When I raise an eyebrow, he continues. "I know what you are doing, and I know why you are doing it. And because I know these things, I feel the need to tell you that you are being _stupid_ , my Warden."

I want to be angry, and so of course tears immediately spring to my eyes. Zevran throws an arm around my shoulders and continues. "I have told no one what I am about to tell you now."

The look on his face makes me opt to hear what he has to say instead of immediately lashing out. It's very much like the expression he wore when he first asked me about Leliana back in the Brecilian Forest. And so I sit and listen and feel increasingly horrified as he tells me about Rinna. Rinna, the elf girl he loved, and then was convinced into murdering.

"You are driving Alistair away and using Riordan to lessen the pain of his loss." His brows knit, and he takes a deep breath. "Trust me, I know the signs."

"I am hardly _killing_ Alistair," I retort weakly. I can't manage to be annoyed that he is once again comparing me to an assassin. Even though I've done all of this so that Alistair might _live_ , in fact, but I don't have the heart to tell the others why Grey Wardens are needed to defeat the archdemon. No. I need them all to be resolved, and they wouldn't be if they knew the full truth.

"I did what I was told was best for the Crows, and it ruined me," he replies calmly, refusing to take offense. "I came to Ferelden, and I hoped to die upon your blade, and then learned that you didn't wish to end my pain."

I wince at this, and he gives me a reassuring squeeze. "But the world works in odd ways, and here I am, glad to be alive once more. You saved my life. You gave me another chance, my Warden. Telling you this now is the least that I can do in return."

I sink against his shoulder in exhaustion. I'm tired of leading, and of being strong, and for once I'm being given the opportunity to do neither. Riordan is making the battle-plans, and Zevran is forcing me to confront my suffering over everything Alistair and I have put one another through in the past few days, and then giving me a chance to hurt without shame.

 

_This is what family does, pup. We tear open each other's weaknesses and then hold each other up until we're stronger for it. Your mother yells because she loves you and she wants her little girl to be fearless and safe._

Father would have chided me for being self-absorbed over the past few days, and Mother would have taken me to task more than once for wallowing in my own pity. But they are gone, and so my brother- in-arms calls me back to my senses.

"Thanks," I murmur, and kiss him on the cheek. "You are the only person I know who has ever called me stupid and not bled for it."

He raises an eyebrow. "How thankful are you? In the right context, a little bloodletting can be quite pleasant!"

"I told you to comfort her, not seduce her!" comes a voice from behind us. Zevran grins at Leliana over my shoulder and opens his other arm.

"Come, my dear, and we may both comfort her."

I laugh. "Shut up, Zev."

He shakes his head. "Such terrible manners you have picked up on the road, my Warden."

Leliana accepts the offer of his open arm and sits on his other side, and Zevran smiles in a way he clearly reserves for being pressed between two women. Maker's breath, I've known him so long that he no longer has to _say_ lecherous things to make me blush.

"Go to bed, Evie," Leliana suggests. "You're very tired." When I protest, she insists that she'l help Zevran sit watch.

"Go on. You need sleep!" After she repeats it for the fourth time, I give up and obey.

Riordan, Loghain and I have pitched our tents in a small cluster, and Sten has assembled his bedroll in front of them. He seems determined to continue watching our newest recruit, and I find myself completely lacking a desire to change his mind.

I strip once I close my tent flap behind me, fall gratefully onto my bedding, and feel suddenly bone- tired. When Riordan lets himself in several minutes later, I don't protest, but I also make it clear that I have no intention of turning his suggestive kisses into actual lovemaking. When he realizes this, he wraps his arms around my middle and buries his face in my shoulder blades with a contented sigh. Part of me wants to follow Zevran's advice completely and send him to his own tent, but I find that I can't deny him comfort and closeness. If the others knew that it was very likely the two of us would die bringing down the archdemon, they would understand. And so I sleep with his arms around me and feel reluctantly grateful for not being alone.

~*-*~

When I come to, he's holding me by the shoulders and shouting my name, and Andraste's _blood_ , it feels as though my skull is full of bees—

Both of us are out of the tent before I'm aware that I've stood, and I'm clutching at my head and whirling in a circle. I have to _be_ somewhere, I need to _go_ , I—

Riordan's nails dig into my arm, and I'm myself again. We have made enough noise to rouse the others, and—no, someone else is screaming, not us.

Loghain, still asleep, and thrashing wildly in his tent. He's newer than either me or Riordan, and so can't block the archdemon out as easily. My enjoyment at hearing his horror wars with my memories of my first few nightmares, and I let myself into his tent despite the voice in my head that demands he suffer on.

"Loghain," I murmur.

He twitches, but doesn't wake, and so I put my hand on his shoulder.

_Stupid_. The man is a hardened warrior, and he wakes with a start, flinging me away and tackling me with an enraged howl. I call his name again as he pins me and presses the blade of a knife against my throat.

"Loghain, you _fool_ ," I hiss, and his eyes focus on me at last. Focus, and look down, and find me naked beneath him.

He rolls off me without a word and tosses his cloak at my breasts. "That was the archdemon?" he asks, turning away and giving me the chance to cover myself.

I nod and draw the cloth around me. "Yes, and I believe he is no longer content to remain in the Wilds."

Riordan agrees with my assessment from his place on the other side of the tent canvas, and we rouse those of our party who were still pretending to sleep and the leader of Loghain's men. It's decided that we should break camp immediately and keep moving toward Redcliffe while Riordan sets off and attempts to learn where the archdemon has moved to.

"How will you find it in time?" Sten asks. "Ferelden is not a small country."

"Believe me, my friend," he replies. "I will know where he is by tomorrow night. All I have to do is give in and follow the call."

During the two days it takes for us to reach the city, I conclude that the news isn't good. This fear is affirmed before Riordan reunites with us, because when we reach Redcliffe the town is in flames. I suppress a moment of panic before organizing the clearing of the town; Alistair and Eamon were meant to arrive two days ahead of us, and a small part of me is convinced that he is dead.

We cut through a throng of darkspawn to reach the castle, which is crowded with refugees from the town. Refugees, Eamon, Teagan, Isolde, and Alistair, who is very much alive. Most of the villagers are relieved to see me because I've saved them before; surely I can return their town to them again. I try to smile and give them hope, but when Riordan returns and meets my eyes meets my eyes I know that my worst fears are about to be realized.

As soon as I learn the full story, it becomes clear that we've gravely miscalculated, and I want to shout at Riordan that he is an idiot, but....

I _let_ him take the lead. I let him pull our troops too far south to intercept the horde on its way to Denerim. I allowed Loghain to bring his former soldiers along, and left the city with only the Watch and Royal Guard to protect it. And now the archdemon is leading the darkspawn directly to the capital, and Ferelden's army is on the other side of the nation.

Eamon, Teagan, and Alistair don't blame me when Riordan explains the situation to them at the war council we hold in the main hall. Nor do the leaders of the dwarves, or the emissary from the Circle of Magi. But that doesn't make me feel better as I seize control of the situation, give the orders for a forced march in the morning, and send Loghain's cavalry on ahead to give Denerim what support they can. But it won't be enough. The city will fall. We were just _there_ , and now it shall burn, just like Redcliffe. These people had just _rebuilt_. It isn't _fair_.

"How many times do I have to save this bloody town?" I mutter to myself that night, pacing the floor of my suite and trying to ignore the vague sense of queasiness that has overtaken me.

"'Til they learn to save themselves," Morrigan replies, and I jump. She is standing in the doorway with Alistair, of all people. In the months we've been together, I have never seen them willingly travel near one another.

"Evie?" he asks. "I, uh. Are you okay?"

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. "Yes, I am fine."

"For once I wish you'd tell me the sodding truth when I ask you that question," he frowns, stepping into the room and wrapping his arms around me. I fold into his hug even though I shouldn't and allow his warmth to give me comfort. Morrigan's eyes usually bore icily into my back when he and I hug, but tonight she focuses on the fire in the hearth and gives us a moment of peace.

"I have failed everyone," I mutter into his chest. "Does it make you happy to hear that? I gave someone else control, and now Denerim will fall."

"No, we'll save Denerim. We have you." He kisses my hair, and neither of us mention that Anora is trapped there while the horde advances. I'd sent a runner to warn the city, but the fact remains that our queen is in grave danger, and Maker forgive me, part of me is happy at the realization.

"For a few days more, at least."

He shakes his head. "No. Morrigan has a way to make sure none of us die."

I turn my head to her, and Alistair urges me to listen, but what I hear her say causes my blood to burn almost as strongly as the archdemon's call. "No. No! Alistair, you cannot possibly consider—"

"—consider what? The possibility of you dying? The thought of you going off into battle and me not being able to protect you, when if I sleep with Morrigan, it will keep you alive?"

I pull away from him and try to prevent my lip from curling in disgust. "No. Then we spared Loghain for nothing! Do you really want him to stay on as a Warden? We cannot get _rid_ of him."

Morrigan's eyebrows arch. "No?"

I bristle. "I will _not_ be responsible for you giving birth to an Old God _and_ a royal bastard in addition to the murder of a famous and well-loved man."

Alistair takes me by the arms and forces me to meet his eyes. "Please. I feel so _helpless_ , Evie. Let me do this one thing for you."

"No, absolutely not. If you do this, Alistair, I will never forgive you. The archdemon must be destroyed, not _reborn_. Think like a Warden!"

He turns away and stalks from the room without another word, and I whirl on Morrigan. "How dare you manipulate him like this?"

She shrugs. "'Tis news indeed to learn that this would be unappreciated. I had no idea you'd developed such a death wish."

"Did you also think me lacking in common sense?" When Morrigan frowns, I run my hands through my hair. "Leave me. And if you go _near_ him again, so help me, I will kill you." As the words leave my mouth, I realize that I mean them.

"You are a fool," she hisses, and slams the door behind her. I sink to the floor and take a few deep breaths, forcing myself to fight the sick feeling that suffuses me when I think of Alistair with _her_.

Jealousy. There are still bruises on my body from Riordan's _teeth_ , and I have the gall to be jealous? Andraste's tears, but I despise myself.

I've managed to pick myself up off the floor, at least, when there is another knock at the door. Loghain lets himself in before I provide permission. Of course; he has already seen me naked, so clearly manners are no longer necessary. Morrigan is hot on his heels, and I taste bile as I turn to face them.

"Is the marsh witch speaking the truth? Do you intend to use me to kill the archdemon so that I will die and the rest of you will not?"

His eyes meet mine, and they don't blink. When I nod, he sighs and steps closer.

I expect refusal. I expect anger and possibly violence. But what I'm greeted with is relief: he rests a heavy hand on my shoulder and utters a single word.

"Good."

While I'm pondering this reaction, Morrigan's rage boils over. "Is idiocy a requirement for being a Warden? Do you honestly expect me to sit idly by and watch you kill yourself, Evie?"

I shake my head. "No, I expect you to fight alongside me and stop the Blight, as you are meant to."

She scowls. "I refuse. You do this thing, if you think it right. _Die_ if it pleases you. Make Alistair suffer. Redeem Loghain in the eyes of the nation he wronged. I care not. But I will not witness your failure." When I feel pain in my chest, I realize that Morrigan and I have become friends.

"Do not leave me," I hear myself say, but her gaze is icy.

"We both shall do as we must," she answers, and turns toward the door.

But Loghain is already there, knife drawn, and before either of us can react he plunges it into the bare skin at her breast, stabbing her through the heart with a single thrust.

She is dead by the time she hits the floor, and all I can do is stare at Loghain in shock as he wipes a spray of blood from his face and withdraws his blade from between her ribs.

"When a snake has shown its fangs, commander, you do not give it a chance to bite." He takes me by the upper arm and attempts to lead me from the room. "You need a glass of wine."

I shake him loose and kneel beside her, ignoring the blood seeping into the carpeting. I want to be angry with him, but all I feel as I brush her eyes closed with my hand is resignation. The very reason why I appreciated Morrigan as much as I did is the same reason why Loghain ended her life. I allowed myself to admit that her self-centered pragmatism was useful, but he refused to ignore that it was a _threat_. I consider taking a ring from her finger to add to my necklace, but Loghain smacks it from my hands and pulls me to my feet again before I can. This time, I do not resist as he leads me out of the suite.

Zevran's quick disposal of her body, the industrious servants who clean my room, and the herb-laced wine plied on me by Wynne do little to soothe my nerves. The new rug on the floor is worse than her blood would have been because it makes me feel like we are pretending that she was never here.

And tomorrow we march to save a doomed city. It's hardly a relaxing notion.

Sleep is out of the question. Each time I close my eyes I see Loghain stabbing Morrigan. If I'd been asked this morning which of them would betray or protect me, I wouldn't have answered correctly.

I turn to the writing desk and think of my companions. I've been so worried about dying soon that it didn't occur to me that they might, as well. Granted, I'd been intending to keep them alive by sheer force of will, but my last night at Castle Cousland made it clear that such things are impossible. It had not saved my mother and father. It won't save my friends if the archdemon turns its gaze and fangs upon them instead of me.

Stop the Blight, save my companions. Make sure they know what they meant to me—just in case I—I sit at my writing desk, draw a sheet of paper toward me, and address a letter to Leliana.

By the time the sun has risen I have one for each of my followers, as well as Teagan, and am in far better spirits. Fond memories of all of them—even of the dwarf—have surfaced and replaced the pain of Morrigan's betrayal and whatever I'm doing with Riordan. I place them all in my pack, strap my armor on, and step out into the hall to seek my companions.

Zevran, Alistair, and Loghain are eating breakfast. The elf is squarely between my two brothers—such as they are—and Loghain's eyes are fixed unwaveringly on his plate as though he is attempting to seem like a statue. A hungry statue, which is wolfing down cold meats and pastries as though he hasn't seen food in ages, but a statue nonetheless. When I walk in, all three of them glance up and smile with varying degrees of enthusiasm and honesty.

"Ah, my Warden!" Zevran greets me. "Your eyes tell me that you did not sleep. Was the archdemon shouting, perhaps? He has such a poor sense of timing!"

I shake my head. "No, I was just... too alert." I push the image of the new rug out of my head and smile.

Loghain startles us all by speaking. "I never sleep before a battle. It is normal, commander."

"Oh, right, like anything that goes on in your head is _nor—_ " Alistair begins, but Zevran silences him with a look.

Riordan chooses this moment to enter the hall and ask if we're ready for travel. We all nod and point to our packs, and he takes it upon himself to throw his arms around my shoulders and nuzzle my neck.

"You did not sleep," he murmurs into my ear, and I hear Alistair's silverware clatter onto his plate as I close my eyes and attempt to turn my head away.

"No, but I will be fine."

His arms tighten around me when I try to pull free of him. "I'm sorry that I could not keep you company."

My eyes fly open at this, and I catch him glancing over my shoulder at Alistair with his piercing blue eyes.

Alistair is half-standing, mouth working angrily. "What— you—Evie, how _could_ you?"

I push Riordan away and ignore the way my eyes are stinging. Maker's breath, this isn't how he was supposed to—but Loghain speaks again.

"What, whelp? She is supposed to stay loyal to you even after you give her up for the throne?"

Alistair whirls on him, hand to his sword. "Throne? I don't _want_ the throne! I did this for the good of Ferelden!"

"If that is so, then you have no right to judge what she decides is good for _her_."

"I'm not about listen to moralizing from the monster who murdered the Wardens and our king."

Something in the back of my head is screaming and telling me that I need to defuse this _now_ , because my Wardens are at each others' throats and we need to work together. But I'm so upset with Riordan and Loghain that no words come to me, and my fingers keep twitching to my blades because my body insists that's the only way my problems are ever _really_ solved.

Then Zevran is in the middle, hands on Alistair's shoulders. "My friend, allow me to speak with you. I believe once you learn what I know, you will understand."

Part of me doesn't want Zevran to offer his insight to Alistair. But our eyes meet, and I must look as hurt as Alistair feels, because his expression softens and he allows himself to be led away.

I whirl on my senior Warden once Loghain, Riordan, and I are alone together in the room. "If you touch me again, I will _gut_ you. Your posturing may have just cost us the ability to work together."

He shrugs. "You presume that was possible from the outset. Thankfully, all we need to do is slay the archdemon. The armies will get us that far."

I shake my head. "I am taking charge before you destroy us all. Get to your room, get packed, and stay out of my sight until we are on the road."

Loghain frowns at me as we stand alone together in the room and Riordan's heavy bootsteps retreat down the hall. "And you think that you can save Ferelden? I'm amazed you made it as far as you have, given the way your companions squabble."

"We do not always—" but I cut myself off. He doesn't need to know. "Do me a favor, Loghain. The next time you think that saying something will help me, keep your mouth closed. Doing what you think is best will only ruin us all. I thought that much had already been made clear."

His eyes narrow, and he turns on his heel and leaves me alone. I pick up an apple and hurl it across the room to vent some of my rage. It hits the stone with a sickening squish, sending soft pieces of its flesh ricocheting into the air before it falls to the floor and bounces twice.

Let the servants find it later and wonder. I head for the front door and square my shoulders before coming in sight of the others. My party may be falling apart, but Denerim _will_ be saved regardless.

My list is growing again. I can't shake the feeling that I'm setting myself up for disappointment.


	23. A Fool's Death

My companions and I have been allotted horses for the forced march. On the second night, I learn that I can, in fact, sleep while in the saddle. Zevran mocks me good-naturedly when he catches me napping, draped across the neck of my mare, but I've sent Wynne to see to another unit, and so there's no other way to combat my exhaustion.

Most of the troops I keep segregated by race and under the control of their own leaders, but the mages I've split and scattered. Duncan wanted a single mage with each unit at Ostagar, but had been denied. Despite the losses at the Circle Tower, I'm able to manage this with the mages who heed my call. They, too, are given horses for the march so that they may save their strength while they keep our soldiers awake and fortified.

My party leads, naturally, because we're the Grey Wardens; we're why the soldiers behind us are marching at all. I keep Riordan busy and away from the rest of us by having him scout ahead and warn us of any darkspawn stragglers. Loghain rides beside me, utterly silent, his eyes wilder and the rings beneath them darker than ever because he refuses to allow a mage to cast on him just as I do.

Alistair and Eamon ride with us, and I see a determination in my fellow Warden's eyes that makes me uneasy. It's the same determination that I saw in Teagan's expression when Eamon ordered him to remain behind. "We need _some_ Fereldans to survive," he said.

"That is why I should come with you!" Teagan retorted, but his brother hadn't relented.

It's also the same determination that drove me to find Duncan in my library and demand to be made a Grey Warden my last night at Castle Cousland. At first I believe that Alistair is going to insist that he fight his way to the archdemon with us, but after he guides his grey alongside me and cautiously initiates conversation, I realize that I was incorrect: he's as determined for me to survive the upcoming battle as I am for him.

We fall back into glib remarks far more easily on the road than we would have managed elsewhere, partially because Zevran and Leliana actively encourage us to talk to one another. But when Riordan comes near, Alistair's jaw sets, and he rides ahead, leaving me alone every time. In all honesty, this is a relief. But no matter who is nearby, Loghain stays beside me and watches. Only when Riordan tries to speak to me about things other than the upcoming battle or the state of the troops does he snarl and drive his horse between us.

This, also, is a relief, which of course fills me with conflict. Riordan doesn't deserve to be ostracized if I haven't been. But when I try to find time to apologize, he waves me off.

"No, do not give your watchdog reason to bite, Evelyn. I assure you, I am fine." And then he rides away before Loghain can accost him with more scowls.

Despite these moments of tension, everyone appears to be in high spirits until the horses begin collapsing. When their mounts begin falling from heat exhaustion, the mages continue on foot. By the third morning we've lost several, Loghain's black included. But our soldiers are still hale, and so I ignore the little girl in me that's screaming and tell myself that this is worth it and that we can't waste the mage's spells on animals that won't be of use within Denerim. I send my horse to Wynne when hers falls toward evening and continue walking at the head of the line. Head high, shoulders squared, as though I'm not tired.

We arrive exhausted. We arrive to a city in flames. But we _arrive_ , and as the army crests the hill toward Denerim, Leliana begins to sing a ballad. Other bards in the line recognize it and take it up, and I watch in awe as jaws unclench and spirits rise in a way magic couldn't replicate.

I order the army to halt in sight of the gates and try to ignore the sight of the archdemon in flight above the city as I give the orders to pass food and water along the ranks. " _Good_ food and water," I hiss to Eamon. "If this is to be their last meal, I want it to be edible."

He nods and sends his entourage to the supply train. No one has challenged my orders since we left Redcliffe. If these people die, it will be because of me.

But if the archdemon dies, it will be worth it. It _will_.

Riordan I send ahead with a small force to find our best point of attack while Alistair comes to terms with the fact that the troops expect him to give a speech. "Why me?" he mutters, shaking his head. "They're all following _you_. Why do they care what I have to say?"

"Because you are the handsome man in the golden armor, surrounded by standard-bearers. You are what the children's tales have told them is their inspiration."

"Right, so," he groans. "Here's the plan: you put on the shiny armor, I give the pages to you, and _you_ make the speech."

I shove at his shoulder and then feel instantly awkward for having touched him. "Honestly, Alistair. This is your _job_ now."

He fidgets with a gauntlet. "Then I order you to do it with me, general."

"As you say." He looks to my eyes and smiles in relief when he sees a hint of amusement.

When we step onto the dais together, I'm horrified by how quickly the sea of people before us falls silent. So is Alistair, so I put on my best Cousland smile and break the tension to give him a chance to gain confidence.

"I have heard some of you say that your meal was not to your liking!"

People begin to shuffle awkwardly. I wait for what I've said to be passed back into the crowd before I continue. "I agree. Whatever Eamon had killed and salted for us, I doubt that it was _cow_." A ripple of laughter. "So I promise you this: when night falls and the battle is over, I shall give you all ale, mead, wine, and whatever else you fancy to get that taste off your tongues."

A series of cheers, which I allow to spread as well. "And make no mistake that we will be the victors at the end of this fight. The stories say that only Grey Wardens can stop a Blight, but I tell you now that this is not true. There are four of us, and thousands of you, and when all of this is over it will be because of _you_ that your families and friends can sleep free of worry that darkspawn will come for them. It will be because of _you_ that the Grey Wardens will kill the archdemon and liberate our capital city. And when my bard," I add, pointing to Leliana, who smiles and twirls at the head of the line, "when my bard writes the tale of what we shall accomplish here today, she will make sure that credit is given where credit is due. We will fight together, we will win together, and glory shall be won for all of us!" I finish with a shout, and am pleased to hear an answering cheer.

I step back and smile at Alistair, who takes my place in the center of the dais and shakes his head at the crowd. "You see? Do you all see that? _That_ is why we're all here." He gestures at me, and I hastily put my helmet on to hide a flush. "Without her, I wouldn't be here. None of you would be, either. Without her, our country would still be at war with itself, and we would not have assembled an army of elves, men, and dwarves to push back the darkspawn for the good of us all."

The crowd falls silent again, and Alistair's voice gains confidence. " _She_ is your general. Remember that when the battle rages, and let it comfort you. Evelyn Cousland is the kind of woman who bends the world to her will. She makes allies of enemies, and she keeps her promises. _She_ will get us through this day. _She_ will lead us as we end this Blight, and I guarantee that she will make it look easy."

Kardol, the leader of the Legion of the Dead, surges out of the crowd. "Listen up, you dusters! I've seen her take three men and push back the line of darkspawn in the Deep Roads that my boys and I were struggling to keep, all without breaking a sweat. We broke our rules to come fight with her, we were so impressed."

Alistair laughs and signals for silence as the dwarves roar. "Kardol, we had your men to help with that."

"Sodding right you did," he replies. "Now let's go do it again, Wardens."

The troops are ready. They shuffle and shout and take their hands to their weapons. At my nod, Alistair orders them to charge the gates of the city. The darkspawn on the outskirts are weak; they fall easily to the wild swings of the army, but this heartens them and gives them the confidence they need to ignore their strange faces and horrific sounds. Once we're inside the walls, I order the leaders of my factions to begin retaking the city.

"Kill them all," I snarl. "Send any survivors toward the gates."

They move out, and I resist the sudden urge to shout in glee as the mages begin putting out the fires ravaging the buildings as they pass by.

Soon, my companions and a small force of Eamon's knights are all that are left standing with me at the gates. Riordan reappears and tells us what he has learned: three generals, as well as the archdemon, are leading the enemy attack.

"You take the generals, Evie," he says with a sad smile. "I will go ahead and lure the archdemon to the top of Fort Drakon. Meet me there when the generals are dead."

I frown. "How are you going to find it?"

"Oh, I guarantee that he will find me. I'm told that in Blights past, the archdemons always go right for the Wardens. They can sense us, and they hate us as much as we do them."

That would explain the wrathful screaming I was accosted by on the night of my Joining. Loghain, Alistair and I wish Riordan well before their eyes all return to me.

I rummage in my pack and take out the letters I've written, handing them out silently. Loghain notes that there isn't one for him and crosses his arms with a small smile.

"What is this, written instructions?" Sten frowns. "That hardly seems sensible."

I shake my head. "No. Just some things I want you all to know, in case I do not get a chance to tell you."

Sten's violet eyes meet mine, and his fingers grab the letter and begin shredding it. When I shout in protest, he shakes his head. "Tell me when the battle is over."

One by one, the others shred their letters, as well. I want to be angry, but instead I begin to laugh helplessly as the pieces of paper fall around their feet, landing in soot and blood and water. "You all infuriate me."

"Use that for the battle," Sten retorts.

I throw my hands into the air. "Fine. Sten, Zevran, and Loghain are with me. The rest of you stay here and guard the gate and the survivors when they begin arriving."

Alistair's eyes narrow. "What? No! I'm going with you."

"No, you are not." Not after I've worked so hard to keep him _alive._

"At least take me," Wynne frowns.

I point at Alistair. "Your place is with him. I can take care of myself."

"And just how are you planning to do that?" Alistair asks.

"By not dying," I reply, and feel relief when he smiles despite himself.

But suddenly he is surging forward, and his arms are around me, and Maker, I have leaned against his armor, seeking comfort. He presses his lips into my hair and whispers, "Be careful. It will ruin me if you die out there."

I tilt my head to look up and him and give him a sad smile. "I am sorry," I whisper in his ear. "I never said that enough when I should have."

"I should've paid more attention to the times when you did. But I'm an idiot."

I shrug and pull away from him. "That is a large part of your charm."

He gives me the smile of his that I love, where the skin under his eyes crinkles and his head tilts just slightly to one side. "Go shut that bastard up, pup."

"As you command, Majesty."

I turn and look at the remains of Denerim, letting my blood tell me where the generals are. "Come on," I murmur, and my three chosen fall into step behind me. I don't look back as my companions cheer and Leliana begins to sing again. I don't look back as the soldiers shout and bang their swords against their shields, or when I hear Alistair's voice drift over it all, insisting that I "stab the archdemon in a soft bit" for him. What I _do_ look back for is the anguished howl of my mabari and the sound of charging paws.

"Absolon, no!" I scold, but he growls at me and follows behind Sten. The part of me that is terrified that I will die knows that he should die with me. Better for it to be quick in the throes of battle than for him to stop eating and waste away as he would if he outlived me. I resign myself to his presence and lead us all toward the Market District.

In some ways, it's like being back in the Deep Roads. The darkspawn come at us in endless waves, but we're strong now, and so they fall easily. We purge the district, pause to breathe and drink water, and then turn toward the Alienage.

I'm horrified to discover that it has _not_ been evacuated as it should have been, and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me why: human lords, so worried about their own lives that they forgot to warn the elves of the impending attack. Human guards, who forgot to allot men to oversee the evacuation of the Alienage.

At least they've managed to hold back the darkspawn so far. Elves that have spent their lives staring at the signs warning them they will die upon weapons they possess have found them nonetheless, and at their head is Shianni. She's probably responsible for both their arms and the fact that they're all calm despite the sickening sound of splintering wood coming from the gates.

Part of me wants to let them stand and fight so that they'll be filled with the pride and confidence of a people capable of protecting their homes and their loved ones. But they have no armor, and so I order them to flee for the gates once we've stopped the onslaught.

It's not as easy this time, which makes me angry. The last darkspawn to fall to my blades is a hurlock, which I stab through the shoulder and then kick in the head. It crumples at my feet, and as I begin to clean my blades I realize that Loghain is standing beside me and laughing. It's quite possibly the most discordant sound I've ever heard simply because his eyes remain as cold and wild as his voice is mirthful.

"What?"

"Did you just kick a darkspawn to death?" he asks, and when I nod he begins to laugh again. "Commander, that was astounding."

"You have missed out on many such feats," Zevran interjects. "Her boots are as deadly as her blades to doors, mages, and darkspawn alike!"

"Is that a typical finishing move, then?" Loghain asks.

I smile coldly. "Yes. In fact, I kicked Ser Cauthrien into a flaming bookshelf to end her life."

His mirth fades, and his eyes narrow. "She deserved a better death."

"She also deserved a commander worthy of her loyalty," I reply, and follow the itching in my blood toward the final general. When it falls, I close my eyes and feel for the archdemon.

There's something beautiful about finally giving in and allowing my feet to take me toward it—no, _him_. I can feel him in my head, frantic and wrathful. Destruction soothes his pain, and so the city crumbles in his wake as he loops and dives through the air above us. But Riordan is there, as well, near the top of Fort Drakon, and I can feel the demon seeking him just as he seeks in return. Loghain gives a little sigh as he falls into step beside me, and I allow him one brief look of understanding; this is the only time since I put the Joining chalice to my lips that I haven't felt like my blood was trying to crawl out of my veins. Now it courses happily as I step.

_Step. Step_. Zevran or Sten says something beside me, but I can't hear it over the relief of finally giving in.

Darkspawn fall quickly now because they're in the way of my progress toward the archdemon. I'm ruthless with my blades, and Loghain bellows and flattens them all with his shield, leaving them unguarded for me to seek the killing blow as they twitch on the ground.

Our trance is broken by a shriek, and I look up to see the archdemon struggling in midair, its blood falling over us like rain. It writhes and smashes into the top of Fort Drakon as a small, broken shape splits from it and plummets to the ground.

Riordan.

I break into a run even though I know that I don't want to see. His body lies dead and broken near the foundations of a burning house, and his blood is mingling rapidly with the dirt and grime and ash around him. But I ignore it all, sink to my knees beside his corpse, and allow myself a moment to fear.

_He failed_ , my blood tells me as I sense the ache and pain emanating from the top of the fort. It's up to me and Loghain now.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and look up to see the teyrn gazing down at me with understanding eyes. "Don't worry, Commander. I have every intention of making up for my mistakes. The archdemon will fall, and you will live."

"I believe you," I reply as I stand, one of Riordan's rings in the palm of my hand. I add it to my necklace as we walk, and then forget all about it as we fight the enraged darkspawn who are answering the call of their agonized leader. They fall in masses, in droves, and soon we're coated in their blood and exhausted by the sheer amount of stabbing and swinging it takes to progress.

We encounter a band of knights and two mages at the entrance to the fort, and I shiver as I'm repaired and rejuvenated by the keen-eyed healer who appears to be holding everyone else together by sheer force of will.

"Queen Anora's in the fort," their leader tells me. "We ran into some of Loghain's men and what's left of the City Watch. No one knows if she's alive or not."

"We will look for her as we head for the top," I reply, and ignore the glee I feel at his words. I should  _not_ hope that our queen is dead, Maker forgive me. "Stay here and guard our backs."

"Yes, Warden," he says. Zevran gives the knight the last of his waterskin; he hands it to the mages, who share it thirstily.

Anora is ensconced in a small room half-way to the roof of the fort, surrounded by a wall of guards who are in turn surrounded by piles of darkspawn corpses. "How kind of you to join the fray, Warden," she says by way of greeting, and I shake my head at how out-of-place her flippancy feels to my nerves.

"Stay here. The fort and the city are nowhere _near_ safe, your Majesty." She's given the last of my water, which she passes through her protectors before finishing herself. Amazing how war shifts priorities and rank and privilege.

"They will need a large force to get us in here," her head guard says.

"And such a force is within the fort," I reply. "I can feel them. Be careful."

Loghain and Anora give each other a long, piercing look, but exchange no words. I'd expected him to be happy to see her. Then again... he appears to have never had a doubt that she would survive. When he catches my gaze as we continue moving, he reads it expertly. "Anora is strong enough to endure. Worry for her soldiers."

"Believe me, I do."

Until the archdemon comes into view and leaves me more worried for _myself_. The instant I see him, wings bloody and shredded, but still fighting, taking my army out in droves, I'm torn between despair and rage.

Then something shifts in my blood, and the demon turns toward us, and hisses like he did the day I became a Warden. The few surviving soldiers fall back as I face off with my nemesis.

"Hello," I smile, and draw my knives. I've killed a high dragon. I can vanquish this. When he howls, I shriek, and my companions and I surge forward and out of the blast of flame meant to burn us.

Sten, Loghain, and Zevran are irritatingly determined to keep me out of the fray. They put themselves between me and the archdemon at every turn, howling and stabbing and stepping under his feet to keep him dancing and unable to choose a specific target.

"You will do me no good if you die _before_ I do," I hiss at Loghain at last, and he takes me by the arm and pulls me away from the main battle.

"Fire, Commander, and I shall guard our flank," he says, gesturing at a ballista.

I aim it and turn it, grinning wildly, as Loghain slashes through the darkspawn pouring into the roof after us. The first bolt hits the archdemon in the neck, piercing through scale and embedding deep within its flesh, and he howls and leaps into the air.

Maker's mercy, the thing can still _fly—_

He pounces on me, roaring, and I feel a sharp pain in my stomach before I'm airborne, flying backward from the impact of claws and twisted muscle. One bounce against the roof sends my helmet flying away, and the second makes my neck and shoulder ache. I skid to a stop and force my eyes to stay open.

All I see is the archdemon, looming above me, hissing and thrashing his tail. I try to keep my grip on my knives, but I feel my fingers weaken as the pain in my stomach begins to invade my other senses and deaden them. I whimper like an animal as my fingers go numb and my blades fall from my hands. No. _No._ This isn't fair. I'm so close to the end. I have to keep fighting and see this through. I have to get up.

But my fingers don't respond, and my legs have lost all feeling. My vision goes black and I whimper again, fighting my body as it gives up despite my orders to the contrary.

Why can't I just _get up?_

~*-*~

Hands, causing new pain and tearing me back into consciousness. I open my eyes to see Zevran and Loghain above me, removing my armor and cursing eloquently. Their hands come away covered in blood when they unbuckle my breastplate, and it takes me a few moments to realize that my annoyance at ruining my armor is completely inappropriate to the situation.

"You're not supposed to bleed, _miaja,_ " Zevran scolds, and I can tell by the way he keeps his voice light that I'm grievously injured.

When I tilt my head to inspect my stomach, Loghain catches my jaw in his huge hand and tilts my eyes to his. "Don't look, Commander. It won't help you." When I nod, he releases my face and guides me onto my arms so that Zevran can begin wrapping bandages around my middle.

"Where is Sten?"

"He is seeing to your dog, my Warden," Zevran replies. "Absolon doesn't look half as bad as you do, however!"

My blood burns. "It is not dead," I gasp, looking at Loghain's face questioningly.

He smiles humorlessly. "It will be soon enough."

Zevran is wrapping the bandages _over_ my shirt, which strikes me as another bad sign, but I resist the urge to look. Loghain takes my gauntleted hand in his, and I squeeze it when the pain wins through the numbness once more.

"Strap her back in," Loghain orders once Zevran has finished, and I wail as they pull the buckles tight. "Get up, Commander," the teyrn orders, but when I try to stand my stomach rebels and I vomit on his boots instead. He passes me his waterskin wordlessly. "Rinse. Do not swallow, or you will lose it again."

I sip, and spit, and ignore the sweat beading my brow. After I return the skin to his hand, I manage to struggle to my feet despite the fact that my vision is swimming. When I stumble, he loops my arm over his shoulder and stoops, and we look at the archdemon together.

He's lying a short distance away, bleeding and keening in pain, with one baleful eye still fixed on us. Even in his final moments, fixated on death. Empty. Twisted.

I pity him, I realize.

"Zevran, Sten, get everyone off the roof," I order, trying to keep my chin lifted. "Loghain and I need to have no distractions when we kill it."

The elf gives me a long look, then obeys with a shrug. "I will see you at the tower entrance! You kill the demon, and I will turn my blades on your enemies still in the fort, no?"

I nod. "Just be careful."

When we're alone, I pull away from Loghain and lean on my father's sword, and we stare at each other in silence.

"Thank you," he says at last.

"Why?"

"For believing in me enough to give me a chance to atone."

"Father always said the best allies in war were the outcasts and the misfits," I manage. "You appeared to be both."

Loghain smirks. "Your father was an excellent man, Evelyn Cousland. He would be proud of you." When he sees the hurt flicker in my eyes, he clasps my shoulder briefly, then draws his sword. "Give my best to Anora."

The shock-wave created when he stabs the archdemon sends me onto my knees, and I shield my eyes as light envelops me. My blood shrieks, and wails, and I feel two lives extinguish before I'm left alone on the roof. I see spots and feel my ears ringing as I force myself back onto my feet. It takes a long time to manage without help; my hands are covered in my own blood, and my boots are sticky with it, which makes their purchase against the stone slick and precarious. But I stand, and focus, and hardly believe what I see.

The archdemon is dead. If I were in less pain, I would be crying, but it takes all my effort to remain standing, eyes open, staring at the carnage before me.

Loghain is gone. He sacrificed himself willingly, and I'm alive. The thought makes me dizzy, and I reel and clutch at my stomach as I force myself to take slow steps to where the dark-haired, armored form is crumpled at the head of the demon, mere inches from a shattered section of wall and a sharp drop to join Riordan.

_Atonement_ is the strangest thing, I muse as I gaze down at his lifeless eyes. To truly atone, the sinner must be able to forgive his own sin, and the wronged the wrongdoer. If the wronged are dead, then the sinner hopes to find others who will tell him that he is forgiven in the stead of those originally harmed.

 

_Your father would be proud of you._

Loghain went to his death believing that his slaying of the archdemon would negate the lives lost at Ostagar.

No.

He never asked for _my_ forgiveness. I bend to one knee and close his eyes with my fingers before I use my remaining strength to kick his corpse off the top of the fort. It takes a sickeningly long time for him to land, and bounce, with the sound of crunching armor ricocheting off the rubble and returning toward me.

I can't forgive him. Because I can't forgive him, the rest of Ferelden never will.

Power corrupts. Maker help me, but I'm no better than Zathrian. My vision swims, and I fall to the ground.


	24. The Killer

I'm outside the fort when I regain consciousness, and someone is carrying me. "Alistair?" I ask, and am horrified by how weak my voice sounds.

"No, though he lives."

"Teagan." He looks down at me, and I smile as best I can through the aching pain in my stomach. "You're _not_ supposed to be here."

"According to my brother. Would you have listened if he had told you to stay home?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Exactly," he says, voice light. As though I don't know that I'm near death. "Now stop talking. We are almost to Wynne."

I want to ask how he found me, but I feel a warm tongue lap at one of my hands and figure it out for myself. "Thanks, Absolon."

He whines, and I fade out again.

~*-*~

Wynne stands over me, thin lips pressed into an even thinner line as she has Alistair and Teagan remove my armor. There's a tent over my head, and the sounds of boots and lively chatter nearby. "Make sure they all get liquor," I mutter. "I promised they would."

"If those are your last words, Evie," Teagan frowns, "I am going to be very disappointed."

"A dilemma, then," I hiss—Wynne is now unraveling bandages—"because I adore disappointing you."

"Hush, Evie," Alistair says, wrapping his fingers around mine and pulling my hand to his chest. I turn my face to his and smile at the worry I see there. "You promised me I wouldn't have to do this alone."

"You're right." My voice sounds strangely far away, which worries me.

"Keep her awake, Alistair," Wynne orders—

 

"—vie!" I blink, and Alistair cups my face with his hand. I stare at him in surprise, and then shriek in pain as Wynne peels my shirt away from my stomach.

"Maker's breath," Teagan grimaces, turning his face away. "I can't—"

"Go get us a glass of ale each," Alistair orders, "and wine for Wynne. I'll stay with her."

Teagan exits the tent without another word, and Alistair tightens his grip on my hand. I appear to be sweating. Lovely. "You should have taken Wynne with you. Did the archdemon do this?"

I nod.

"So Loghain is dead, then?" When that garners another nod, he continues. "We haven't seen Riordan yet, either. Is he—oh, he is," he finishes when I nod yet again. "So it's just the two of us again."

"You sound _very_ disappointed," I chuckle. A mistake, because pain sears through me, and I nearly lose consciousness again.

"Blast it, Wynne, just _heal her already_!" Alistair snarls.

She frowns at him. "Do you want me to botch this, young man?"

"N-no," he relents. "Sorry. I'm just.... Maker, Evie, you're so pale. It's scary."

I smile at him. "I'm not going anywhere. Not yet."

"Good. I was worried you'd forgotten our promise about the Deep Roads," he grins back. "I'm not letting you die until you've put up some statues, either."

My smile turns into a relieved sigh as Wynne finally begins casting, and I experience the odd sensation of my skin melding back together. Judging by the extent of the crawling and tingling in my stomach, the archdemon nearly disemboweled me.

"Drink this," Wynne orders, gesturing for Alistair to pull me into a sitting position on the cot. He sits behind me and uses his chest to prop me up as I'm handed a cup of broth. "You've lost a lot of blood, and magic won't heal that."

Magic, it turns out, also hasn't healed my exhaustion. There are things that need doing, and information I need to acquire, but as soon as I've downed the broth my eyes flutter shut and I find myself leaning against Alistair, enjoying his warmth. Something in the back of my thoughts is insisting that what we're doing is wrong, but no _reason_ comes to mind, so I decide not to pull away.

"Let's go to bed, dearest," he murmurs, stroking my hair, and I curl against him on the cot and close my eyes.

~*-*~

When I open my eyes the next morning and find myself alone in the tent, I feel almost normal. Maker bless Grey Warden healing.

Almost.

A glance down at my bare midriff calls to mind Loghain's order that I not look at my wound, and now I can see why. It must have been a talon, caught just above my right hip when he batted at me with his foreleg. The wound is healed, now, but the size and shape of the mark is enough to make me light-headed.

No. I need to see how my men fared during the battle, and the status of Denerim as a whole, before I can dwell on distressing, disfiguring battle scars.

The fact that I seem to be without a suitable shirt and cuirass is also distressing. Both are missing, likely thrown away by Wynne while I slept last night. I put on my trousers, boots, and the breastband Leliana made me to stop my skin from being rubbed raw by my armor and pace back and forth for a few moments, thinking.

We're in a camp of thousands of men and women, and I'm missing a shirt. But I'm also missing vital information.

...And, as soon as I'm spied shirtless, I'll likely be handed one. Problem solved.

I should not have worried about seeming immodest: eyes pin on me, yes, when I step out of the tent and find myself in what seems to be a hospital camp, but they are staring at the _scar_ , not my face. And all of them have the same question in their eyes: _who killed the archdemon_?

I think of Loghain's lifeless eyes and feel suddenly cold. As I shiver, Zevran surges to his feet from a nearby crate and strides toward me, not bothering to hide his smile of relief. "Allow me the chance to see you in my clothes, my Warden," he offers, stripping off his shirt and holding it out to me.

"Will it fit?" I keep my voice level, but raise an eyebrow at him.

He scowls. "Yes, yes, you're nicely healed and your sense of humor is back. How wonderful. Now could you celebrate your recovery by squeezing your ample human bosom into my shirt?"

After I've obliged, we seek out the bann and arl. Teagan and Eamon seem incredibly relieved to see me, and both give me hugs before ordering me to sit in a nearby chair. Zevran takes a post by the door and grins at me while the arl and bann swoop about me like nursemaids.

"Maker's breath, I do not need coddling," I mutter as they press a mug of water into my hand.

"Nonsense." Teagan frowns. "I was the one who found you, Evie. I saw what the archdemon did to you. It is a miracle that you are alive."

Not a miracle. _Don't worry, Commander. I have every intention of making up for my mistakes._

Alistair shoves aside the tent flap and nearly trips as Absolon dashes past him to greet me, howling as though I'd gone on a wonderful trip without him and all he could do to pass the time was destroy the dining room chairs again. I half-expect Nan to come barreling after him with a broom.

"Absolon, both of us will not fit in this cha—agh!" And then we're both on the floor and my side is aching. Marvelous. I throw an arm around my mabari's neck and scratch his chest until he's calm again.

Alistair hands me a bowl of soup, and I down it hungrily while Eamon waits and Absolon rests his head in my lap.

"No, no." I frown when it becomes clear that the arl doesn't wish to speak until I've finished eating. "Go ahead and ask, Eamon. I have as many questions as you do."

"Alistair told me last night that Loghain and Riordan did not survive the battle." When I stare at my soup, he continues. "We found their bodies this morning."

Which means their troops would have been in the heart of the city. "So we have control of Denerim again, then?"

"Yes. But Evie... who killed the archdemon? Was it you?"

Alistair snorts, which does little for Eamon's sensibilities, and I use the silence to drain the broth in my bowl. "No, Eamon," I reply. "It was not me. Riordan... struck the final blow to the archdemon. As it died, it injured me and swept them both off the tower."

I can feel Zevran's eyes on me, but I refuse to look up from my soup. Alistair gives a sigh of relief and slumps down beside me on the floor, which does even less for Eamon's sensibilities. "That's a relief. I was worried we'd have to... that _he'd_ done it, you know."

"Yes, I know." I let my eyes meet Zevran's, and he nods once.

Alistair runs his hands through his hair. "That would have killed me."

... _Maker forgive me_. "I know. But Riordan came through, as he promised."

Eamon leans back in his chair. "Teagan, go send word out. The soldiers will want to know." When the bann has left, Eamon's eyes seek mine. "We found Anora this morning, as well."

"Oh, good," I sigh. "Where is she now? I have a message from her father." At least in some small way I can thank Loghain for dying in my stead.

A long silence descends upon the tent.

"...She's dead, Evie," Alistair manages, and I feel the blood drain from my face.

"What? _How_? We saw her not minutes before the fight with the archdemon—" when the beast's pain had summoned darkspawn to him in droves. The fort must have been overrun. Maker's mercy. "Is she... presentable?"

"Remarkably, yes. We'll be able to have a public pyre," Eamon says with a sigh.

Alistair and I glance at one another. "I would like to see her," I say.

"I have one other bit of news—"

" _Now_ ," I insist, and Eamon sighs and directs me to the tent where they have her laid out. Alistair keeps Zevran and Absolon behind; I can't blame him for not wanting to see.

When I arrive, I order the maids washing her face and hands out and stand alone with her. The tent ripples in the breeze around me as I stare down at her, absorbing the details, trying to recreate her final moments. They've brushed her hair; it falls loose around her face and neck, making her seem far younger than I'm used to. In fact, she looks like the little girl I used to be afraid of because she never smiled. Other than the gash at her breast where the dagger ended her life and the strange, bloodless pallor of her skin, she's remarkably presentable.

Especially for someone who had been killed in the heat of battle.

Loghain knew he was going to die on top of that fort. Why didn't he say goodbye to her when he had the chance? And why hadn't she said anything to him? Now they are _both_ dead, and I feel like I've failed them by being unable to pass his last words on to her.

But in a way, I actually have failed them. I recognize the blow that killed her.

Darkspawn don't kill like this. They hang their hostages, or slit their throats and consume their cooling flesh. Death at their hands is a slow, gruesome thing. But this? This was a single dagger between the ribs, aimed at the heart.

I'd been taught that move not three months ago.

 

_You kill the demon, and I'll turn my blades on your enemies still in the fort, no?_

I feel warm breath on my shoulder and turn my head to find a still-shirtless Zevran standing behind me. He steps forward and stares down at her for a moment before speaking.

"It is a clean kill, no?"

"You _bastard_." My jaw clenches.

Zevran shakes his head. "Such gratitude, my Warden."

"For killing the queen? Maker's breath, I owe Loghain more than this—"

"Oh? Kicking him off the top of the tower was not repayment enough?"

I close my eyes and try to prevent the sound he made as he hit the ground from echoing through my mind. The attempt fails miserably. "...I did that for Alistair."

"And this was done for both of you." He frowns at me. "Now she is out of the way, and the two of you can be together, and you have a better chance at taking care of your list."

"You _murdered_ her."

Zevran crosses his arms. "That is what I do."

"This is treason! Zevran, I should—I—" But I don't bother finishing the sentence, because I already know that I won't punish him for this. We've saved one another's lives far too many times for me to throw him in prison now.

I sink to my knees on the floor of the tent and bury my head in my hands. "Are you going to tell Leliana about this? She would want to know, and I doubt she will be happy."

His tone is guarded. "She and I spoke last night. We... probably won't be speaking again."

" _Damn you_ , Zev."

He sits down beside me. "I was not lying when I told you that I owe you my life, my Warden. Consider this my repayment. You will be a terrifying queen."

I lean over and rest my head on his shoulder, closing my eyes in exhaustion. His skin is warm, and he smells like his armor. "I am beyond angry that you did this."

"But you are not unhappy."

"Yes, I _am,_ " I mutter.

"But not as unhappy as you _should_ be," he insists, throwing an arm around my shoulders.

"I would have much rather locked her in a tower, you know."

"This is more cost-effective. A country so recently overwhelmed by a Blight cannot afford to keep nobility ensconced in fine prisons, after all!"

" _Zevran_."

He rubs at my shoulder and ceases speaking. I close my eyes and think while the canvas of the tent flaps in the breeze above us. Alistair will feel responsible if he finds out that Zevran did this, and _why_. I won't be able to tell him.

As though lying about the death of _one_ Mac Tir has suffused me with an insufficient amount of guilt. I rub at my temples and feel a sudden desire for a nap.

"You will have to leave," I tell him.

I feel him nod. "I think I will return to Antiva, perhaps kill my way back into the Crows."

"You can do that?"

"I can try!" He grins, and I'm horrified to hear myself giggling. "My Warden," he continues, and waits until I've met his eyes to continue speaking. "You seem worried."

"Just tired." Tired, and thoroughly worried about the person I've become over the past few months.

"Then this is an excellent time to tell you that I was sent after you by Eamon. He has one other order of business to discuss."

Sod it. I rise and look at Anora once more. Zevran turns away respectfully as I bow to her. "My lady, I hope you and your father are together in the Fade so that he can pass on his final words himself."

"What were they?" Zevran asks as we walk back through the encampment toward the war tent.

"He sent her his regards." And then he died to save his enemy's life.

"Ah," he replies. "How very dull."

I shake my head. "I suspect that neither of them excelled at emotion."

"I can see that." He shakes his head. "When I felled the last of her guards, she—"

"Please, spare me the details." When he sees my expression, he apologizes and walks beside me in silence.

It takes longer to return to the tent than it did to leave it. Soldiers want to see me alive and well, and I'm soon exhausted from smiling and clasping hands and laughing at raucous jokes.

"General," they say, and I start each time. _General Cousland_.

"That will soon change," I mutter.

"Add it to the pile, my Warden," Zevran smiles, holding open the tent flap for me. "Alistair, you will be horrified to learn that Evie's list has grown again."

I cut off Alistair's retort with a glare and then stare at Eamon. "What do you want now?"

"We had another arrival to Denerim this morning," the arl replies. "I thought you would want to speak with him yourself." He gestures to his left.

"Maker's breath, Eamon, I am almost freshly stabbed. Is it really necessary for me to see to every detail this instant?" I fix my gaze on the new arrival and feel the rest of what I meant to say die in my throat.

Fergus.

"Evelyn," he chides. "Mother taught you better manners than this."

Mother also taught me not to sink to the floor and burst into tears, but I find myself ignoring that lesson, as well. My embarrassment at crying in front of the arl is heightened by an instinctive hatred of myself for showing my older brother weakness, which makes me sob so hard I can barely control my breathing. Eamon goads everyone out of the tent—including a reluctant Alistair—as my brother sits beside me and pulls me to his chest, summoning memories of scraped elbows and a jeering Cailan.

"Hush, Bandit," he says once we're alone, and I feel my sobs redouble again. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

 

_I want to be the knight! You're always the knight!_

_Little sisters are always bandits. It's the rules._

_I hate all of you!_

_Bandit, bandit!_

My fingernails dig into his shirt and I feel myself speaking before I know what I plan to say. "You bastard! All this time, I thought you were dead, and I was so scared, and _alone_ , and—sod it, you bastard, you arse..."

Fergus laughs and pets my hair. "Who taught you to speak like this?"

"Either our new king or the dwarf. Take your pick," I grumble, and then the sobs take over again. "If you'd been along, I'd be much more pleasant now. Where have you _been_?"

Fergus crosses his legs and pulls me over so that my head is resting on his calves. I wipe my cheeks dry and watch him talk as he tells me about the Chasind who took him in after our soldiers had been ambushed in the Wilds before the battle. Old, familiar mannerisms that I'd completely forgotten about soothe me, and soon I'm smiling, rather than crying, at the way he squints when he pauses to think and how he always finishes his stories with a small, self-depreciating laugh.

Almost Father's sense of humor, but with the nuances of a man who grew up in the shadow of strong parents and a spitfire little sister. I feel suddenly terrible for my brother.

"And while I was abed with fever, my baby sister runs off, becomes a Grey Warden, and saves the country." He sighs and runs his hand over my hair again. "You even got vengeance on Howe, if I heard right."

I hold up my palm, where the scar from Father's blade still glistens pinkly. "It came at a price."

"I wish I could have been there," Fergus replies, closing his eyes in pain. "Oren and Oriana—there are a few things I wanted to do to that man before he died."

"Well, for what it's worth, I stabbed him through the chest with the Cousland sword."

We fall silent for a while, and I'm nearly drifting off when Fergus pinches my cheek in that way I _hate_ more than anything else. "Father would be proud of you, Bandit."

I think of cursing and kicking down doors and punching people in the face and all of the things a Cousland should know better than to do. I think of Zevran and his insistence that I'm a killer, and Isolde's face after she returned from Connor's room, holding a knife dark with his blood. I think of Arthas' wife, the Mac Tirs, the faded bite marks at my neck from Riordan, and the new rug on the floor of the guest suite at Redcliffe.

"No, he wouldn't," I manage, and then I begin to cry again.

"Tell me why you think so," Fergus insists.

I tell him everything. It feels like it takes hours, and my words pour over one another in a rush, beginning with my necklace and ending with kicking Loghain off the top of the fort and covering everything in between.

 

_This is what family does, pup. We tear open each other's weaknesses and then hold each other up until we're stronger for it._

I tell him everything _except_ the details of Anora's death. I used to be able to tell my brother anything, but Zevran has found the line I can't cross. The dagger in her chest will always be my burden, because if I tell anyone the truth I risk Ferelden. I risk Alistair's rule.

I risk my family.

But talking about the rest is strangely cathartic, especially because he wasn't there to see it all happen over time. Fergus listens, and pets my hair, and shakes his head when I've finished and descended into sobs again.

"Bandit, Father sheltered you too much, I think." His voice sounds sad, and I sit up to listen to him.

"What?" I wipe at my face and order myself to stop crying. This is getting ridiculous.

"He never spoke to you about the war against Orlais, did he?" When I shake my head, he continues speaking. "That's because he didn't want you to know the things he had done. He told me, but he wanted to keep you safe and away from war for as long as possible. It's why he didn't let you come with us to Ostagar, you know."

Part of me wants to ask what our father had done that he was so ashamed of, but I realize that I don't need to because I already understand why he didn't want to tell me.

Fergus smiles at me. "He _would_ be proud. I'm proud. And you should be, too, for having to make all of those terrible decisions alone and still coming this far."

I shake my head. "I wasn't alone until recently."

He grins at me. "You do realize that I'll need to have a chat with our new king about hurting my little sister, right?"

"Don't," I insist. "He would take you far too seriously."

"Still," Fergus sighs. " _You_ should speak to him, at the very least. You will feel better once the two of you are united again."

"I'm afraid of what he'll say about Riordan. He's been so nice since Redcliffe, but we thought we were going to _die_ , and then I nearly got cut in half by the archdemon. Now that everything is over, who knows how he'll act?"

"You have to talk to him. If he loves you, he'll be willing to heal. And to help you do the same."

"Fine, then," I mutter into my hands. "But not yet. I just got my big brother back."

"And we've taken over the war tent quite aggressively," he reminds me.

"I don't care," I retort. "Eamon and the others can wait."

"You've gotten better at sulking since I saw you last, Bandit," Fergus laughs.

"Shut up." I fall back over onto his legs, and he obligingly remains still.

Atonement is the strangest thing. The Mac Tirs can't forgive me, but my family can, and time will tell whether that's enough.

 

Now all that's left is to see if Alistair will.


	25. Sweetness Follows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is AO.

It took less time to get Denerim back under control than I expected, though the vast reserve of able- bodied men and women willing to help rebuild and police the streets while refugees trickled back in was likely responsible. Alistair gave Eamon no end of trouble by throwing in and helping with the mundane tasks as the city was restored. The arl eventually applied to me to "talk to him about propriety," but relented when I pointed out that nothing would win the hearts of the people more than a king who was willing to rebuild alongside them.

I wanted to help clean and repair, but found myself without the time. My speech to the troops before the battle had cemented my role as General of Ferelden's armies, and the elves and dwarves deferred to me as well, leaving no way for someone else to step in.

Not that such details prevented me from silently deciding that I would be handing the mantle of general over to Teagan at the first possible moment. I was the leader of the Grey Wardens now that Alistair was king, and it would be a conflict of interests to also be the head of Ferelden's army.

The Grey Wardens were neutral. I owed it to the order to make that more clear than ever to Fereldans, especially since Loghain's distrust had decimated us. The nobles needed no cause for suspicion. When I told this to Eamon, Teagan, and Alistair as we sat, exhausted in a conference room within the palace, the only person who appeared surprised by my decision was the bann himself.

"Evie, are you sure? Why not Fergus?"

"Fergus has enough on his plate already, Teagan." He was, in fact, off clearing Castle Cousland with what was left of the Royal Guard while the main army worked in Denerim. After that was done, I had no desire to see him away from his home again. Not after Oren and Oriana. Not after being gone from Ferelden so long. My brother—the Teyrn—had other duties. In that I must think like a Cousland and not like a politician.

"There are more experienced members of the nobility to call upon," Teagan insisted.

I shook my head. "You saved Redciffe, helped organize the Wardens' forces, and have the trust and respect of the nobles and the soldiers. Plus," I added when he continued frowning, "I know that you will listen to reason and not allow paranoia and pride to deafen your ears. After what this country has been through recently, I can think of no one better for the job."

"Other than yourself, you mean?"

I scowled. "No. I am not nearly sensible enough."

Teagan let the subject drop after that, and I began taking him along to all meetings. Refugees needed guarding along the road home, and darkspawn needed driving out of towns in the south. Soon the army was split, and it was all Alistair and I could do to convince the elves to stay on and help with the clean- up while the dwarves marched home to fight the darkspawn underground once more.

"We are compelled to help you during a Blight," the Dalish emissary reminded us, sitting across from us in the war tent and frowning beneath his tattoo. "With the archdemon dead, we are obligated no longer."

Alistair slammed his fists on the table in frustration. "We can't lose half of our army right now! We need all the assistance we can get to retake the towns lost during the Blight!"

"That is not our problem. These are _your_ lands, human lord."

The arl bristled at the emissary's disdain, but Alistair was undaunted. "Evelyn, would you like to share your idea?"

"Help us save our lands and we will return yours to you." Alistair met my eyes and grinned when the emissary began sputtering, and I felt a strange surge of relief when I realized that I could actually _cross something off my list_.

Three clan leaders arrived the next day to seal the deal, and at the end of the week I found myself at the head of a mass of elves and knights, bound for the south. I was a Grey Warden, and so could lead them where the worst of the darkspawn remained. I was also, it turned out, the only human the Dalish were prepared to tolerate in the lead; I'd planned to send Teagan with his brother's knights and the elves, but the keepers had adamantly refused. So Teagan was ordered west, instead, and prevented the remaining bands of darkspawn from hitting undamaged villages.

Sadly, this meant that Alistair and I didn't have a chance to talk before duty called us to different places. We hadn't had time alone since the night Wynne healed my stomach and I'd fallen asleep in his arms. He was the king, and I the Warden-Commander, and there was no time for personal issues with the fate of our nation still so uncertain.

Teagan spoke to me the night before I left. I was in the library, staring off into space and enjoying the silence with Absolon, when he strode through the doors and sat down in a chair beside me.

"I am surprised plans for your and Alistair's wedding have not yet been discussed, you know." He sank back against the cushions. "Am I missing something?"

I thought of the knife-wound that killed Anora and the way Zevran left in the night without saying goodbye. "We have not spoken about—anything, really."

"You _should_ , Evie."

"With what time?"

He glanced toward the door. "This moment, for example?"

I sighed. "It is too soon, Teagan. We cannot be selfish without risking the safety of Ferelden and the political stability of our new king. I need to be able to present myself as something other than a Grey Warden if we are to wed." Not to mention I had no idea if he still _wanted_ me.

Strangely, it was time away from him that proved that he did. Messengers rode to and fro between Denerim and my little army, sending word of our progress as we traveled. His responses were nearly always formal, but when he received my assurance that the south was once again under our control, the messenger that returned a rather dry commendation that reeked of Eamon also handed me a small, sealed letter which said only: _Good. Now blast it, Evie, get back to Denerim before I go mad_.

I read it twice before calling for my horse. I left with the messenger, pausing only long enough to order Eamon's knights back to Redcliffe and the Dalish to Ostagar, where they were to wait for the other clans and decide which of their people would travel to Denerim as ambassador and facilitator when we handed land over to them officially.

I return now to a city well on its way to recovery. Houses are repaired, trade has resumed, and the political system has stabilized enough that I'm told King Alistair is "unavailable" when I arrive at the palace. My initial reaction is to barge in anyway, but I sigh and remind myself that I need to think like a Cousland and not like a soldier. The Blight is over. My role is changing again.

I should have begun thinking like a Cousland instead of a soldier _before_ I arrived at the palace, in fact; I'm wearing armor, rather than a gown, and nobles and staff stare at me as I'm guided down the hall toward a guest room.

No, they aren't staring at _me_. For a moment I believe it's my armor: the Dalish had given me a new set after learning that the archdemon took my old cuirass with him. It was crafted in their traditional style, which left my midriff bare, though the elves and knights I spent the past months fighting alongside thought nothing of it. But the looks on the faces of my observers aren't uncomfortable, but _horrified_ , as they gaze at my stomach.

The scar. My hands rise to cover it unthinkingly, sliding against the smoothness of the healed tissue in an old, familiar motion. During my months on the road, I'd developed a nervous habit of tracing the outer line of it with my fingers while thinking. The archdemon's talons were grooved, not smooth, which didn't bother me among other, sometimes equally scarred, warriors on the road. But now the scar feels like an unwelcome reminder of events Denerim appears determined to forget.

"Should I call for a bath, your ladyship?" the maid asks me as we step into my room. I nod at her and set my pack down next to the bed.

"Yes, please."

"And will you be needing a gown, as well?" Her eyes flick to my stomach and dart away.

"Yes, I suppose I will." I sigh and begin removing my boots as she leaves the room, wondering if Alistair is actually unavailable, or if I was judged _unfit_ to see my king.

My mood is little improved by the arrival of the chamberlain, who refuses to leave me in peace until he has located six gowns that will suit me, provided me with a handmaiden and a dinner tray, and conveyed his condolences that "His Majesty will be unable to see you until tomorrow." Exhausting.

Never have I been so thoroughly served.

The chamberlain leaves me with my new maid, who stares at me in terror and chews at her lower lip. Her mannerisms and her long, red hair instantly remind me of Leliana playing the serving girl when we stole from Arl Howe.

"What is your name?" I ask.

Her eyes widen. "Beg your pardon?"

"...Your name, girl."

"B-B-Branwyn," she manages, staring at the floor. "B-brush your hair, your ladyship?"

Maker's breath, what do I _look_ like, a Chasind crone? I shake my head and point to the door. "Go see that my mabari has been settled into the kennels, please." As she leaves, I make a mental note to write to Fergus and have him send me a lady-in-waiting with _sense_. Maybe he could reopen the Cousland Denerim estate so I could find a chamberlain with sense, as well. That man must have been hired by Eamon, because Anora would never have tolerated his tone.

I pace until she returns to tell me Absolon is fine, and then pace after she leaves, wishing already that I were back in my armor. I want to spar with someone, but there's nobody to call upon: Zevran and Sten are gone, no one has heard from Oghren in months, and Leliana has resumed Chantry life. One of the palace knights might prove distracting, but I know better than to attempt to goad my maid into arranging such a thing; she wouldn't know where to _begin_.

I've just decided to write to Fergus when loud voices in the hall catch my attention. "—d it, Leith, I should be informed... arrive to my own bloody castle!"

I recognize that voice. My pulse races and I smooth the sleeves of my gown as the conversation becomes clearer.

"—jesty, perhaps if you returned to the great hall we might have her summoned?" The chamberlain's voice.

"Summoned? Are you mad? Have you _met_ her?"

A telling pause which makes me smile despite myself. "Y-yes, but—"

"Get out of my way—and dismiss these guards! Where did they even _come_ from?"

"We cannot simply leave the king unescorted..."

"Blast it, this woman is why I am alive, you—just get out of my way. I'll be safer in there than in the center of an army!"

"As his Majesty commands," comes a voice on the other side of the door, and I have enough time to stand and whirl before Alistair has burst into my bedroom.

"Evie! Evie, they didn't tell me you were here! What's the point of being king if nobody ever _tells_ me anything?" He frowns and slams the door behind him.

An awkward silence descends as soon as we are cut off from the hall. I stare at him, completely at a loss. I'd expected armor, which makes me feel foolish. He is a king at court, so of course he's not wearing his armor any longer. More telling is his lack of facial hair; even for Eamon's celebratory dinner at Redcliffe, he'd remained unshaven despite being well-dressed. He'd also worn his fine clothes with far less assurance then than he does now.

Alistair became a king while I was away. It wasn't _fair_.

"Hello." I smile weakly and cross my arms over my chest, unsure how to address him. Is he my bastard king, my brother-in-arms, my lover? Suddenly I wish I'd followed Teagan's advice and spoken to him alone before leaving. At least if I'd done that I would have some idea of what to _say._

"'Hello?' Is that the best you can do? _Months,_ Evie. Months!" He surges forward and pulls me against his chest.

"Sorry," I manage, trying to prevent my body from relaxing against him out of habit. "I just—you should not be in here "

"Oh, shut up." When my eyes widen, he takes me by the hair and pulls my face upward for a kiss.

That, at least, has not changed: his lips feel familiar, and have the same effect upon my nerves as ever. Kissing him makes me feel calmer, and when he makes me hug him again, I no longer protest.

"Maker's breath, but your hair has gotten long." He brushes it off one of my shoulders with a hand, then pulls me back to inspect me. "Did my chamberlain actually put you in a _blue_ gown? I'll have him quartered for that!"

I groan. "Who decided to give you power?"

"Ah, you did, actually. So if I _do_ kill Leith one of these mornings, you get all the blame."

I feel a smile forming. "As my king desires." For once, the title is more truth than tease, but his retort remains unchanged.

"Your king _does_ desire, pup." The last word is paired with a glare. "He's spent the past few months doing little else." He pulls me to him again, and I feel his fingers tracing the back line of my gown, searching for the buttons that will remove it.

No. We need to talk, about Riordan, and Anora, and—Andraste's blood, his teeth feel superb. "Alistair..."

"Shut up," he repeats, nipping more roughly at my skin.

"We need to—"

Alistair's tongue traces up to my ear as he unfastens the collar of the gown. "If you say 'talk', I'm gagging you."

"But... " When I see the look on his face, I begin to suspect the gag wasn't an idle threat.

Oh, sod it. I find the hem of his tunic and pull it over his head, catching it round his neck and making him laugh. Once he's been extricated, his fingers move to unlace the gown's girdle. "Much better."

My heart pounds as he continues to undress me, as he picks me up and carries me to the bed, and as he sits next to me and stares. He hasn't seen the scar since the night in the hospital tent, and some irrational part of me insists that it will horrify King Alistair as thoroughly as it did his serving staff. I realize that I'm tracing it again when his eyes drop to watch the movement of my hand. But when he sees it, he smiles and begins to follow its outline with a finger just like I was. It's a delicious, shivery feeling when someone else does it.

"I love this scar, you know."

"You do?"

When I meet his eyes in surprise, he elaborates. "After you fell asleep against me in the hospital tent, I held you and sort of... watched it form." He grimaces and continues. "You were so tired, and _cold_ , and that's when I realized I was an idiot for listening to Eamon. Lel and Zev had been yelling at me about being mad over Riordan already, so I was over that but—Maker, Evie, I had no intention of marrying Anora the instant I saw this scar."

 

_You're not supposed to bleed,_ miaja _._

_Don't look, Commander. It won't help you_.

 

"It has better memories for you than me, then."

Alistair lowers his head and plants a kiss in the center of it. "Well, it makes me feel like an idiot, actually, but that's not new, right?"

I frown. "An idiot?" If anything, it should make _me_ feel foolish; I was the one who managed to get skewered.

"I _know_ you remember our fight, and what I said about Duncan and Cailan." Another kiss, more suggestive, against the scarred skin above my hip. "You'll do anything to protect the people you love, and I should have seen that before. I love you, and I-I'm sorry it took a—you shouldn't have to almost die for me to see sense."

I run my fingers through his hair and smile as he looks up at me with the same uncertainty I've felt over the past several months. "There is absolutely nothing to forgive." Especially not if he's managed to forgive me for my own stupidity.

"Agreed," he replies. "I mean, on your end. Which is why I didn't want to talk about it, but I saw that  _look_ you get, and—" he stops to kiss a line up my stomach to my neck. "I've missed you so much."

"So have I." I sigh and wrap my arms around his chest, pulling him close for a hug.

It doesn't remain a simple hug for long. He's breathing in my ear and nuzzling at my neck and his skin is _warm_ , which does little to convince my nerves that all we should do is lie together naked _._ Soon I'm attempting to roll him over, but he's pinned me to the bed, and when I struggle against his grip he bites at my neck and shoulders instead of releasing me.

"Let me up." I frown, arching against him and panting as he presses back against me.

"No," he retorts, and pulls my hands above my head.

I know before I really begin that struggling is useless; Alistair is a warrior, and he's stronger and heavier than I am. My flexibility is an asset, and I nearly manage to peel him away from me by hooking my legs over his shoulders, but when he realizes what I'm doing he simply presses his weight into me and flattens me against the bed.

I scowl as he pulls out of kissing and nipping range. "Let me up!"

" _No_." He grins and pins my wrists behind his forearm, freeing his other hand to pinch at my nipples. I relax my legs and let them fall to the side, then wrap them around his waist and lock him against me.

"What are you doing?"

"Keeping you where I want you," I reply.

His tongue slides against my throat, and he tweaks my nipple again until I'm groaning and twitching beneath him. "I'm not going anywhere, dearest. I've got several months to make up for."

...Words should not have that effect on my pulse, but soon it's not just his words that have me gasping for breath. He appears to be trying to memorize me with his tongue, tracing my muscles with excruciatingly slow licks, not pausing when he tickles me, but soon that doesn't matter. He ignores any suggestions I make on where to linger until I'm frustrated and writhing beneath him, but still he doesn't let me free.

When I begin to curse in frustration he releases my hands, but holds me by my hips and slides between my legs, effectively making it just as difficult to reach him as before. I want to bite, and suck, and bear down on him until he is within me, but he keeps me pressed against the bed and resumes his _licking_.

His tongue slides up my thigh, following my already-spread legs, and I bite my lip in anticipation, but he skips where I was hoping he would settle and teases at my navel until I curse at him again.

"This is what you get for staying away," he laughs.

"You made me general, remember? You were the one who made me give the sodding _speech._ "

"You didn't have to go with the Dalish," he insists, nipping at my hip and leaving red marks below my scar. "Ferelden did just fine before you came along, you know."

"It did _not_ ," I retort, and then whimper as he bites down harder.

"Learn when to let go of control." His tongue dips below my stomach, skipping just above my hairline, and I buck my hips at him reflexively. "You don't have to do everything."

I lift my head and scowl at him, and he takes that as a sign to bury his head between my legs. It has been _months_ since I have felt anything so—oh, _Maker_ When I begin repeating his name like a chant, he works at my clit faster and with more force until I'm rocking against him quite accidentally.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, and I gasp his name once more before he continues. "You're strong, and _hot_ , and you have the best voice I've—" he cuts off and licks furiously, teasing me until I'm sure they can hear me in the corridor. "Come on, Evie. I want to hear you," he implores, and then plunges two fingers inside me and curls them.

My lower back arches and I grab the sheets, taking deep, gasping breaths as I struggle against him. It hurts, no—Maker—I never want him to stop. I open my mouth to ask him to slow down, and instead hear myself say "Harder."

My eyes close tight as he obeys, and he says more things to my thighs, but the words are deafened by the sound of blood in my ears and the way my nerves appear to be screaming. I lick my lips, and feel them working again, and—did I just say "Please?"

I did. "Please what?" Alistair asks, ceasing the movements of his tongue but increasing the force of his fingers.

I grab him by the hair and pull, trying to bring him against me so I can kiss him and roll my hips against his and finally stop feeling so _frantic_ , but he bites my thigh until I let go.

"No, I'm not ready yet."

"You bastard," I groan, and then whine as his tongue resumes what it was doing.

"Shut up and enjoy yourself," comes his muffled reply, and then he's holding me by the hips as best he can to control my bucking.

My hair is clinging damply to my neck and forehead by the time I stop fighting and let myself come, and he draws himself alongside me with a look of triumph, presenting his fingers to be sucked clean. As I oblige, he tidies my hair and smiles down at me.

"Are you going to keep fighting me?"

No. "Yes."

"Wrong answer," he grins, even though I'm certain he knows that I'm lying. He shifts until he's atop me and pulls my legs so they wrap around his waist. I can feel him brushing against my thigh, and pull him down for a desperate kiss.

Alistair groans when he enters me, and promptly buries his head in the crook of my neck. "Maker, Evie," he hisses, and I whimper my agreement.

Perfect. Everything about this is perfect. No tent, no sense of impending doom, no quiet worry that darkspawn will attack us while we're too distracted to feel their approach. All I need to do is focus on his rhythm, and how each thrust makes me feel from toes to neck as my body clamors its enjoyment. His muscles are strong, and lovely, and make me feel safe, and his skin tastes clean but salty from his exertions. I cling to his shoulders and groan into his neck as he takes control from me completely and tells me how to feel, and what to do to him in return.

"I love you," he tells me, running his thumb along my cheek until my eyes open and meet his.

"I love you too," I manage, and then rock into his next thrust with a happy whine.

He pulls back so he can watch my face and takes me by the hips to hold me steady as he thrusts faster. "Marry me, Evie."

It's hard to form words, but I do my best. "Yes."

"Come for me," he adds with a smile.

" _Yes_ ," I repeat, and then obey with a shout while he licks at my nipples and continues pushing into me eagerly.

I cling to him weakly, eyes closed, too sated to speak, and enjoy the sounds he makes and how wonderful it is to have him in my arms again. No one else. No one else makes me feel this, or understands me as well as he does. I suspect that I've done little to deserve it, but he does anyway.

He forgives like family. He will _be_ my family.

"Love you," I whisper again, and watch as his eyes grow hazy and his pace becomes rapid and erratic.

"Say it again."

"I love you." I tighten my arms around him and hold him close, feeling him climax and letting warmth and relaxation suffuse us both. He falls to my side and tangles his arms and legs in mine, pulling me to his chest and burying his fingers in my hair. I rest my head on his bicep and close my eyes, planning to drift and listen to the sound of the fire in the nearby hearth.

"So you'll do it, then?" he asks my hair, and I force my eyes to open and my brain to work.

"Do what?"

"Marry me."

Tired laughter isn't the response he expected, so I clarify with words. "Of course I will, you fool."

"Good. My coronation's next week. I made them hold off until you were back, so we could crown you too, and—"

My heart sinks. "No."

His arms tighten around me. "No? But you jus—"

"Alistair, I have to find someone to take over the Wardens before I can marry you."

"B-but— but you said!" He looks down at me with hurt eyes.

"I did say, and I will. Giving someone else control of the Wardens is the next thing I will do. I would marry you now, if I could, but a Warden-Commander cannot be a queen. The order is politically neutral, you know that!"

He sighs. "I don't need to say it, do I? You're right. Of course you're right."

"Alistair." I frown and grab him by the chin, forcing him to meet my eyes. "I am yours. No one else will have me."

"Well yes, but—it's not as fun if the entire country doesn't get to be openly _jealous_ , you know," he pouts, and then winces when I hit him.

"Be patient. You are next on my list."

He gives a quiet little laugh and pulls me close to him again. "Good. I'll take that. But you have to help me sort out a few awards I want to give at my ceremony. Some of them might even knock a few more items off that blasted list of yours, and then the two of us can happily live to middle age together."

I close my eyes and think of the Deep Roads. "How cheerful."

"Remember, pup," he says with a grin, "it's all about perspective. Annoying future husband? _Not_ a hideous darkspawn face!"

Andraste's blood, but I've missed this man.


	26. The Landsmeet According to Evelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my betas for this chapter. One guided me in fixing massive pacing issues, and the other supplied one of my favorite Alistair dialogue lines, though she didn't know it at the time.

The problem with being a Cousland again is that no one ever lets me go places _alone_. I explain to my entourage three times along the walk to the Alienage that six armed guards accompanying me will be incredibly counterproductive to my goals, but they won't listen. I finally put my foot down at the entrance to the Alienage gate.

"Stay here and wait for me." I fix them with the stare my mother used to give me when I was misbehaving.

The leader of my escort shuffles his feet, and his voice echoes under his helmet. "But your ladyship, you shouldn't—it's not sa—"

Oh, Maker's _breath_. "I have saved these people's lives twice. I will be perfectly safe as long as _you_ stay put."

He shakes his head. "We have orders—"

"And now you have a new one," I reply. "If you come in after me, I will have you all demoted."

I would, in truth, do no such thing, but they don't need to know that. I enter the Alienage alone, and frown when I discover how little has been done to repair the damage from the battle.

And Alistair had told me that I didn't need to do everything myself.

The elves stare suspiciously as I enter. Since I am a lone female dressed in leather armor and quite obviously armed, I'm not surprised at their tepid welcome, and I keep my hands far from my blades while I walk to the elder's house. He opens his door and blinks in surprise when he sees me.

"...Evelyn, was it?"

"Ah, Valendrian, you remember me." I smile at him, and he shakes his head.

"And how could I not? Come inside and tell me what you need."

We settle down in his living room once I assure him that I really would prefer to sit, and I spend a few moments watching him try not to stare at my scar. This bothers me less after Alistair's exuberant reassurance that it is not, in fact, horrifying.

"What brings you here, Evelyn?"

I think like a noble for a moment and try to determine the best way to proceed. "I was wondering if the young man I freed from Arl Urien's estate is still in the Alienage." When Valendrian's face grows guarded, I make sure that my body language is pleasant.

"He is," the elder admits at last. "May I ask why you wonder? Surely there is not talk of further punishment for the boy."

I shake my head. "No, no. Reparations, actually."

The elder leans back. "I'm listening."

I fold my hands in my lap and wait until he meets my eyes before speaking again. "This will make more sense if I introduce myself formally. I am Evelyn Cousland, sister to the Teyrn of Highever."

There's a long pause. "If you are looking for a servant, I should warn you that the boy is clumsy."

"No, no! That is the last thing I have in mind for—hmmm." I drum my fingers on the arm of my chair. "Perhaps this would be easier if I asked you to bring him and Shianni before we continued."

The elder pinches the bridge of his nose. "Shianni? Maker, what has she done now?"

"Impressed me, elder. Impressed me very much."

Thankfully, Valendrian appears to believe me. He returns quickly with the younger elves in tow, and I'm heartened to learn that Shianni and Soris—so that is his name—are siblings. Perhaps this will work better than Eamon seems to believe.

When we're all seated in the elder's main room, it's Shianni who speaks first. "I never thought I'd see  _you_ again," she says, but she smiles as she speaks, and so I return it.

Valendrian meets her eyes. "Shianni, Soris, this is Evelyn Cousland. Her brother is the Teyrn of Highever."

"Oh, Andraste's ass." She buries her head in her hands, and Soris stiffens.

Mother would've been offended. I, on the other hand, feel _awful_ at the sight of their mistrust. "Please, you two, this is a poor way to give what I hope will be good news."

"We're listening," Valendrian replies.

I force myself not to fidget with my fingers as I speak. "I have spoken to King Alistair about the conditions here, and he has entrusted me with the task of helping improve your home."

"...And what is your decision?" His voice is guarded.

I shake my head. "The _decisions_ are yours. I come with ideas." At this, all three elves fall silent and stare at me, so I elaborate. "The soldiers were horribly lax in their repairs here, but rather than sending them in to simply patch things up, I would rather give you the chance to rebuild and restore your homes and public buildings yourself."

The elder frowns. "With... what money?"

Valendrian is clearly a practical man. I like him already. "The king has seized the Arl of Denerim's lands and treasury," I explain. "Lord Vaughan will be paying for your repairs, after a fashion."

Shianni gives a rather feral smile at this, but Soris twitches. "And while we are on the subject of him.... Valendrian, we are repealing the edict that prevents elves from bearing weapons. In fact, I propose you create your own guard so that you might police and protect yourselves. And I want Shianni in charge of it."

Her eyes widen. "What? But I—why?"

I smile at her. "Because I like you, and you are a natural leader. The crown will pay the wages of any elf in your guard," I add. "Guard Captains make quite a bit, or so I am told."

They smile at one another. They've accepted these ideas. Now, it's time for me to test the limits. "The king would also like an Alienage elf at court to keep him updated on goings-on here, and so that you all may have a voice. Valendrian, I was wondering if I might suggest you for the position."

He frowns. "I would be loathe to leave my people."

"I understand, but you would be doing a great deal of good for your people if you were to accept. You know better than anyone what needs to change here, and King Alistair will listen. At least consider it."

"Very well," he relents. "Is there anything else you wish to surprise us with?"

"There is one more thing, yes." I turn my gaze on Soris, who shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "There is nothing I can do to make up for what Vaughan did to you, your betrothed, and your sister. I would make you Arl of Denerim if I thought it possible, but that would cause more problems for your people, I fear."

Valendrian nods, and Soris takes a deep breath. "So," I continue, "I want to make you a bann." All three of them stare at me in shock.

"Are you mad?" Soris asks at last. "I'll be killed!"

I shake my head. "No, you will not. The land I have in mind is a small bannorn in the south which was hit hard by the Blight. The noble family has been wiped out, so you will not be displacing anyone, and the land is at the border of the territory we are presenting the Dalish, so other human nobles will be wary of it in the future. No one will want to kill you for claiming it."

They still stare at me, and it's my turn to shift uncomfortably in my seat. "Look, I know it does not sound like much, but it is a start, and it would give you a voice in the Landsmeet. I will give you all you need to rebuild the town, and the estate, and help with finding reliable guards—"

"He'll do it," Shianni interrupts.

Her brother's eyes go wider than ever. "Sister!"

"Soris, don't be an _idiot_!"

"Your ladyship," he implores, "I'm not a leader, and—"

I shrug. "And Vaughan was? I have known you ten minutes and I already believe that you will do better than half the nobles I grew up with."

Soris falls silent, and I take the opportunity to stand. "I will return the day before King Alistair's coronation. If the three of you accept my suggestions, tell me then, and we will make the announcement at the celebration."

The walk out of the Alienage is as depressing as ever, but I think of all the good Shianni and Valendrian could do with the right support, and begin silently tabulating the damage that will need seen to. Some of the dwarves have lingered in the city and expressed an interest in contracts to help rebuild. The elves would be far happier working alongside them than human laborers. I'll have to tell that blasted chamberlain at the palace to track one down for me.

Later that afternoon, I sit in Alistair's new library and stare out the window at the palace garden, waiting for him to respond to my account of what went on in the Alienage. I can tell by the way he paces that he wishes he'd been there himself, and make a mental note to change from my armor to a gown so he feels less confined.

"But do you think they'll do it?" he asks, stopping and perching on the edge of his great oaken desk.

I nod. "They have more backbone than they care to admit. But we need to find Soris a bride."

He moves to the seat behind the desk and begins sorting papers. "What, can the man not do that himself?"

I shake my head. "No. He will need a human bride, with a wealthy family that will want to turn the bannorn around."

"No noble family is going to want their daughter marrying an elf, Evie." He frowns at me over his desk.

"Correct," I admit. "Something else for the list, then."

I expect him to shake his head, but instead he passes me a sheet of parchment and a quill. "Fine. Write your list down so we _both_ know what to expect, then."

I pick up the quill and spend a few minutes making my list into a tangible thing I can see and feel and show to others. Alistair laughs at me for including items I've already completed, but I ignore him; the satisfaction of seeing them both written down and crossed off makes me giddy.

While I wait for the time to return to the Alienage, I begin seeing to the repairs of the Cousland estate in Denerim so that I might extricate myself from the grasp of Leith the Chamberlain and my terrified, stuttering handmaiden. When Alistair is told what I am up to and I show him the list of reported damages, the repairs I plan to sanction, and the staff I wish to hire, he laughs at me.

"What, you don't like my chamberlain? I'm hurt."

Blast it. My list clearly isn't subtle enough. "Wait. _Your_ chamberlain? Surely you did not choose that beast of a man!"

He nods. "Yes, I did. I was looking for someone who could hold his own against you." When I scowl, he laughs. "I'm serious! Evie, you've reduced half the staff to tears in just a week."

"...I have?"

"Yes, you have." He frowns at me over the letter in his hands and adds it to a small pile of opened messages. "Now stop it. That's an order! We're not getting rid of the one man in the country who can intimidate you."

"...At least get me a handmaiden who is worthwhile, then," I mutter, and he laughs at me again. It's odd bickering over servants rather than armor, but something about it feels _good_ , and so I let the discussion drop and return to my plans for the estate.

Two days before the coronation, a blond man who looks very familiar comes looking for "the Wardens" at the palace. The chamberlain tried to get him to come back after the ceremony, citing "a flurry of plans," but I had the foresight to pay off a door guard to tell me if any visitors asked for me or Alistair, and so the man is shown to the parlor where we are having lunch.

"Do you remember me, your ladyship?" he asks, hovering in the middle of the room. I nod.

"Your face, but not your name, I fear."

"Levi, Levi Dryden, the merchant. We spoke a few months ago."

"The friend of Duncan's, yes?" When he nods, I gesture for him to sit. "Leith, before you go, have another plate sent for our guest."

The chamberlain stares daggers at me, and I smile a Cousland smile.

"Of course, your ladyship."

When it is just the three of us, I ask Levi what he wishes to speak with us about.

"Well, Soldier's Peak, actually. You remember everything I told you, about the Warden-Commander Sophia Dryden and—" when I nod, he jumps ahead. "Look, I know when we spoke last you told me that the Blight was your priority, but it's over now, and—well, I was hoping you'd reconsider."

"Why is this so important to you, Levi?"

And then he tells me, and Alistair shakes his head when he sees how wide my smile becomes. A family of nobles-turned-merchants, and Grey Warden supporters at that? I agree to meet him at Soldier's Peak after the coronation with a small fighting force to see if there's anything left of the keep that could be of use. The man goes into raptures when I agree, and promises to meet me at the base of the old trail.

In all honesty, the timing for this venture couldn't be more perfect. Fergus has written to me about several new knights he thinks might be better as Wardens, so I could aid Levi and test potential recruits at the same time. Also, the order would need a place to rebuild, and if the keep still stood, it might prove suitable. Suitable, and close enough to Fergus and Alistair that I wouldn't feel entirely cut off and useless.

When I tell Alistair of my plan that evening in the library, he frowns over the top of his desk. "You're leaving me again already?"

I shake my head. "Do you want me to give up the mantle of Warden-Commander or not?"

He sighs. "I shouldn't be giving you trouble. I'm giving Howe's lands to the Wardens, and you'll probably have to see to that for a while, too, so it's not like you'd be staying in Denerim anyway."

I take the time to add _Amaranthine_ to my list before I allow myself to reply. "...When were you planning on telling me this?"

"At the coronation?" When I stand and begin pacing, he flinches. "Don't hit me!"

"No... I _like_ the idea. It will make it hard for the Wardens to remain politically neutral, but if we have more than one Warden outpost in the country the arling could provide funds to rebuild and—" I fall silent and continue thinking. The Wardens could eventually name someone a steward of the arling and move back to an autonomous area like Soldier's Peak. It could work. The banns wouldn't like their taxes going toward the order once the darkspawn were no longer a threat, but... no. One problem at a time. If I think like this, I'll _always_ be the Warden-Commander.

Now I simply need to find a Warden with a head for running an arling _and_ a rich human commoner who wants to marry an elf and take over one of the least desirable bannorns in all of Ferelden. Sten would shake his head and mutter something about such a result being "unlikely" if he were still here. I find this thought perversely encouraging.

The next day I return to the Alienage, and am unsurprised to discover that all three elves have agreed to my plan. I spend the morning escorting them to the palace and forcing Leith to summon a seamstress who can work on short notice. He exceeds expectations—admittedly, a feat which isn't difficult given my opinion of him—by providing a fiery Orlesian elf, which puts the three of them instantly more at ease. I'm entirely unprepared for her to turn her keen eye on _me_ , but after she shoves me atop a small stool and informs me that "King Alistair demands you have a gown that isn't blue for tomorrow," I let myself be measured without protest. While I'm fitted and go through the excruciating process of selecting cloth, my companions wander around the room, running their fingers over bolts of fabric and looking rather overwhelmed.

I pay for all our clothes from my own pocket and invite them to share a guest suite at the palace for the night. Soris and Shianni balk, but Valendrian convinces them to remain. "I would rather spend my first night here with my people than alone." When they relent, I give them Branwyn for the evening. She appears relieved to be dismissed from my services and nearly sews herself to Shianni's side.

After I tell Leith to make up a permanent room for our new advisor Valendrian, assign Branywn to the elf's service until further notice, and watch him have a quiet fit down the hall, I look at my list and realize that I'm running out of things to do until Alistair's ceremony is over. But after so many months of constant walking and planning, sitting and reading a book seems _wrong_. I lace myself into a gown, take Absolon from the kennels, and seek out Bann Alfstanna at her estate. She greets me eagerly, and we sit together over a light meal in her study to chat.

I'm pleased to discover that she's as polite but direct outside the Landsmeet as she was within it, so I allow myself to ask a more personal question than I might have otherwise. "May I ask how your brother is?"

She frowns. "He could be better, honestly. They are keeping him here, in Denerim, and doing all they can to aid his recovery, but the truth of the matter is he may never—" Her hands clench, and she takes a deep breath. "Well. I will be in Denerim for some time. I will not leave my brother until we know, and I am the only person he recognizes anymore. It would be cruel to leave him alone."

I lean back in my chair and think of the empty Arl of Denerim's estate. An Arlessa would give the women of the Alienage peace of mind, I think. And it would be nice to have Alfstanna nearby. She's only slightly older than myself, and seems to have managed being both and excellent fighter _and_ a noblewoman better than I have. Perhaps a friendship with her might break me of my bad habits picked up along the road.

...That, and it would be nice to have a female friend. I've missed Leliana terribly since she left.

"Bann Alfstanna," I muse. "King Alistair has asked that I recommend someone to take over the arling of Denerim. If it would be easier for you to relocate more permanently, it seems the least I can do to make up for Howe's treachery and what has been done to your brother."

Her eyes go wide, and she sits in silence for several moments, deep in thought. "I would be a fool to say no, Warden," she replies. "In fact, I have a rather promising cousin who would make an excellent bann in my stead. "

"Consider it done." There's no point in attempting to hide my smile of relief. "I shall tell his Majesty tonight, and the arrangements will be made tomorrow after the announcement at his coronation."

When I muse to Alistair that the teyrnir of Gwaren is still vacant that evening in the library, he shakes his head. "The nobles aren't a deck of cards you can shuffle around, Evie! They're going to _die_ from stress if we do this all at once!"

I giggle. "Alistair, we have half the holdings vacant as an outcome of the Blight and the civil war. The sooner those are filled, the faster our country will recover."

"I feel like I'm toying with their lives."

"You are, but they will not mind if it works out in their favor, and so far it has." I glance at the door, then walk around behind his desk to run my hands through his hair. "Now, who do you think for Gwaren?"

"I'd say Eamon, but it looks like he's giving Redcliffe to Teagan and moving here permanently to be an advisor." When I snort, he glowers up at me. "He's good at it. I want him here."

"Fine." I make a mental note to keep a closer eye on Eamon this time around.

"Teagan is giving Rainesfere to a relative, so we don't need to worry about that, but—sod it, this isn't helping at all." He takes a large pull from his wine glass. "What about the father of that boy we found in Howe's dungeon?"

"Sighard?" I think back to what my father used to say about him at dinner. "My family liked him, and Osywn is ready to take over their bannorn should Sighard wish it. Or a younger son could, and leave Oz in line for Gwaren." I look down and find Alistair staring at me in fascination. "What?"

"Sometimes, on the road, I'd forget you were a noble." He shakes his head. "You really were bred for this stuff. I never would have considered succession."

"Give it a year, and you will. Believe me. Nobles speak of little else but bloodlines and taxes."

"I can't wait," he sighs. "Tomorrow should be _fascinating_ , then."

I'm prepared for Alistair's coronation to be exhausting—in all honesty, being laced into the gown the seamstress designed for me took more energy than it should have—but by the end of it I still feel like I've been dragged through the Deep Roads. The Revered Mother of Denerim swears Alistair in, and he begins at once announcing and implementing all the changes on my list. A monument is announced for Riordan, "the man who saved Ferelden," Alfstanna is made Arlessa of Denerim, Soris Tabris the Bann of Lothering, and the Hinterlands are officially granted to the Dalish. The keeper present to accept this gift turns out to be Lanaya, which makes sense considering she once lived among the humans. She informs Alistair that she'll remain in Denerim as an ambassador, and I at once begin thinking of suitable rooms near the garden for her, because knowing Leith he'll put her in a windowless cell on the city-side simply to spite me.

The other changes to the Alienage will be discussed with Alfstanna and then enacted in private, but her initial reaction to my ideas has proven favorable, so I doubt Valendrian would be disappointed by her appointment. Alistair announces his addition to his council of advisors, and I guide the elf up the steps when he expresses a desire to thank the crown publicly. The elder, in turn, announces that a man named Cyrion will be taking over the Alienage. I overhear Shianni declare how proud she is of their uncle while laughing and hugging Soris, and so instantly trust that the elves of Denerim will be in good hands.

I feel a pang in my chest and wish Zevran were here to see the looks on their faces and the way Alfstanna catches Valendrian's attention at the end of his speech and expresses a desire to hear how repairs are coming along in the Alienage. This would have made him happy. And if it weren't for him, it never would have occurred to me to—Maker, but I owe him so much. I close my eyes and take a moment to wish him well, wherever he is.

After Teagan is named General of Ferelden, I roll my neck and shoulders, anticipating the end of the formalities and the beginning of the feast, but Alistair raises a hand for silence once more. I'm surprised at how quickly the room falls silent, and once again find myself resenting those months spent in the south.

...Though, perhaps he would not have come into his own as quickly with me beside him.

"I have one more commendation to give," my king tells hall in a clear voice. "Every single person in this room owes their life and their lands to one person. It is lucky for us that she is here among us today, so that we can all thank her for what she has done for Ferelden. Evelyn Cousland, step forward."

I narrow my eyes at him, but obey, walking up the steps toward the dais where he is speaking. When I stand before him, he gestures for me to kneel, and I do, all the while willing my face not to flush. "I am here, your Majesty."

"Warden-Commander, I am granting the former Arling of Rendon Howe to your order as a place for them to rebuild here after the losses at Ostagar."

I nod. "I thank you, your Majesty, on behalf of all the Wardens." None of whom I currently command, but there are rumors from Orlais that they're sending me a dozen to help rebuild.

"And," he adds, smiling down at me wickedly, "I am bestowing upon you the title of 'Hero of Ferelden,' so that everyone here knows who to thank for their lives and their lands."

When I rise, the assembled nobles cheer madly, and I find myself working very hard not to blush or cry. Teagan notices my struggle and pulls me into the crowd when the informal festivities begin, giving me a moment to collect myself by fending off anyone else who seems eager to congratulate me.

"I wish they were here," I tell him, clutching at the medallion bearing our family crest that Fergus had sent from Highever along with the letter apologizing for being too busy with "matters at the castle" to attend the ceremony. The wave of anguish that the subtext of his message had summoned washes over me again, and I feel my breath hitching.

"So do I, Evie," he replies, and hands me a glass of wine. "But they would be proud of you. They were  _always_ proud of you. And your brother is proud of you, too, you know."

This does nothing to stop my tears, and so I'm forced to excuse myself into a drawing room for nearly half an hour. When I return to the room, Alfstanna beckons me to her side, and we spend the evening determinedly working through the crowd together except for the times when one of us is pulled away to dance.

"You are currently the most eligible woman in Ferelden, you know," she smiles at me after I give up and begin declining offers because of my accursed dress. "I would be careful out there."

I shake my head and resist the urge to look at Alistair. He'd wanted to at least announce our betrothal today, but I told him we would need to wait until I was no longer the Warden-Commander in case we gave the last of the dissenters fuel for their dying fire of paranoia and intrigue. "My poor mother should have lived to see this day. She would be euphoric."

"Then honor her memory," Alfstanna says. "What would she have wanted?"

" _Grandchildren_ ," I mutter into my wine glass, and feel more than slightly bitter. The one thing she wanted is the one thing I'll never be able to give, no matter how hard I try. Because I am a Grey Warden. When Riordan told me this last truth of what it is to be a Warden after I had a sudden worried fit about the potential for conceiving right before riding to my death at the hands of an archdemon, I was too overwhelmed by other losses to feel it properly. But as my life has slowly regained a sense of normalcy, it bothers me more and more.

I _want_ children. I want children with Alistair. The country _needs_ such a thing to happen for the sake of stability.

Alfstanna misunderstands my expression, which is for the best. "That, my dear, is why I have never wed. Children terrify me."

I smile a Cousland smile at her, and soon the conversation turns to other things, so I make it through the rest of the celebration in relatively high spirits.

But later, when Alistair summons me to his room, I'm reminded again of this one thing I'll never be able to do because of what he has planned for the rest of the night. I try to push the thought out of my head and focus on his kisses and his warmth, but in the end I let the façade fall and pace the floor of his bedroom, demanding to know if he knew, and when he was going to tell me.

"I knew," he admits, and I resist the urge to throw a pillow at him. "I was just afraid to ask if _you_ did because I knew you'd—blast, I was worried you'd tell me to marry someone else."

"...Were you planning on telling me before we got married, then?"

"Yes, I was." When he sees the look on my face, he says it again. "I was, but we just sorted things out, and—Maker, Evie, the only other time there was really an _opportunity_ was when we all decided I would marry Anora, and that seemed like the last thing in the world I should point out."

I take a deep breath and realize that I believe him. He would have told me, just before it was too late, like he did when he admitted that he was the bastard son of the king when we were almost at Redcliffe.

I slump beside him on the bed, and he wraps me in his arms. "And you still want me to be your queen?" I ask his shoulder.

He kisses the top of my head. "More than ever."

"What about heirs?"

"Put it on your list," he murmurs.

I jerk my head up and stare at him, but find that he's completely serious. "Put it on your list," he repeats. "You've fixed every other problem, so why not this one?"

"I am not omnipotent," I grumble, and he ruffles my hair.

"But you're smart, and cunning, and there are a lot of mages who are in your debt. Maybe they know something we don't."

If they did, there would be Wardens with children, of that I am certain. But I smile and let his hope cheer me. I've fought archdemons and lived, overthrown tyrants, and escaped the Fade. All of these tasks were supposedly impossible, and yet I succeeded despite the odds.

I want children. I want them... even if I'm not the one to birth them. Perhaps there _is_ a way, after all, and time will show me the solution.


	27. The Wardens According to Evelyn

Once Alistair's coronation ceremony passes and repair of the Cousland Estate begins—with borrowed money from Teyrn Sighard, Maker bless that man—I begin focusing on Grey Warden matters.

Inventory is taken of our stores, and I find myself glad that I had the presence of mind to order the mages to drain the archdemon's blood before I left for the south, for I'm quickly inundated with letters stating that supplies in other countries are running low. It takes days to reply to all of them, find messengers, and discover a way to get word to Weisshaupt. As a result, I'm genuinely surprised when I'm told my estate is livable again.

Soris, Shianni, and Valendrian appear to have reservations about my relocation, but Branwyn is clearly pleased when she learns she won't be following me, and Leith has me packed and moved faster than I believed possible. Alistair is loathe to see me move, but when I remind him that I'll be visiting often and that the less I'm distracted, the less time it will take me to hand over the mantle of Warden- Commander, he relents.

Three days in the Denerim estate is sufficient to hire a skeleton staff and a chamberlain I can tolerate: she came recommended by Alfstanna, and I liked her instantly. She would direct with a firm hand, yes, even if I were present, but unlike with Leith, we appeared to have the same _priorities_. When I told her to be sure that the elves hired were paid the same wages as the humans, she blinked once, nodded, and carried on her way.

I leave a week after Alistair's coronation, determined to spend time as a Warden-Commander rather than noblewoman and ride for Highever to pick up the knights Fergus recommended to me as potential recruits. They prove young, and terrified, but excellent at following directions, which was more than I could say for some of my former companions even at the end of our travels. Mhairi and Rowland seem especially promising, and I make sure to spar with them all on the road to Soldier's Peak, testing their resolve and reflexes. Once they get over their fear of making the "Hero of Ferelden" bleed, they prove quite trainable.

When we unite with Levi and begin the climb to the peak, I prepare myself for moldy, crumbling rooms and vast stretches of worn stone. And so naturally we arrive to animated skeletons and possessed corpses, reliving the battle that brought down the keep so long ago.

Levi proves a smart man: he doesn't panic, but he _does_ stay out of the fight, which makes us able to bring him along as we clear room after room. My potential recruits are twitchy at first, but after I snap at them about darkspawn being several times worse than walking bones, they settle down. And so we clear Soldier's Peak more quickly than I'd expected, talking corpses and ancient mages and rifts in the Veil aside.

"I am done dealing with the Fade," I declare to my men and Levi that night as we sit around a bonfire and feast on cured meat.

"Last thing I expected was demons and well-preserved mages," Levi replies, and I laugh and pass him my wineskin.

"It is always demons."

A mistake to say, because they instantly wish to hear the story of my involvement with the Circle Tower. Telling the tale makes me miss Leliana, and as a result I have far too much alcohol and wake feeling like I've been beaten by an ogre. But I force myself to go through a round of sparring all the same, decide several of them will be promising Wardens, and send them ahead to Amaranthine.

In truth, a Warden should probably go with them, but as I'm currently the only one of the order still active in the country, I have no other choice. At least they're all familiar with the region, and the Orlesian Wardens should be there by the time they arrive.

What a treat _that_ will be.

After their departure, I prepare for my return to Highever with Fergus's men. When Levi thanks me again and wishes me the best, I shoulder my pack and frown at him. "I suppose there is no way to convince you to stay on?"

His look turns calculating. "Now, I don't know about that. Serving a bustling Warden citadel isn't something a Dryden would pass up."

"It will take some time for it to become 'bustling,'" I observe.

"We Drydens are forward thinkers. We take risks if the payoff is good. Looks like it's a family trait," he adds, looking up at the keep with a small frown.

...It had never occurred to me to look for a family of wealthy _former_ nobles for my new Bann of Lothering. I give him a Cousland smile. "Tell me, Levi, do you have any unmarried sisters or cousins?"

When he raises an eyebrow at me, I allow myself to hope that some problems _do_ , in fact, solve themselves.

On the return journey, Fergus convinces me to remain a few days at Castle Cousland. It is, in all honesty, the last thing I wish to do. Granted, the repairs are well underway, and the denizens of Highever so glad to get their teyrn back that they've been working night and day alongside the hired crews to clean and rebuild, but....

There's a dark stain in the great hall that hasn't yet been sanded down, and my mind always jumps to Ser Gilmore when I see it. The library reminds me of Duncan, and poor, stupid Dairren, and I avoid the kitchens so studiously that my brother laughs at me. But, he has moved into the master bedroom, and the door to his old suite is bolted at all times, so it's clear that neither of us is unscarred.

"Tell me what happened, Bandit," he orders on my second night there, watching my eyes dart to the stain on the floor for what must be the tenth time this meal.

I shake my head. "No."

"Do I not deserve to know what happened in my own castle?"

"You deserve _not_ to know."

Fergus shakes his head and drains his wine glass. "My little sister, protecting _me_. Why do you think you can know, but I should not?"

"Because you have to _live_ here." I bury my head in my hands and take several deep breaths.

"Andraste's blood, Evelyn, they were my family, too! How can you willfully keep this from me? Do you honestly think it's better for me to wander these halls day after day, looking at the damage, and _wondering_ who fell where?" His voice cracks, and he flings his goblet across the room, startling the servants.

When he meets my eyes, I feel terrible. I'm not being a good sister. I'm not thinking like a Cousland.

 

_This is what family does, pup. We tear open each other's weaknesses and then hold each other up until we're stronger for it._

"Leave us," I tell the servants, and then take my brother by the hand. "Walk with me, and I will show you."

We begin at my room. I tell him how it started in a quiet, detached voice—everything save Duncan— and then walk him along the path I took that night. "Oren, Oriana. Aldous. Dairren. Ser Gilmore and the other knights." In the larder, I point to the floor. "Father. Mother."

He sinks to his knees. "Maker. They were so close."

"I tried to make them come with me, but they... " I clench my fists. "They made Duncan take me, and they stayed behind."

When Fergus smiles up at me, I stare at him as though he has gone mad. "It sounds like them," he explains. "And it is good to know that they _chose_. I imagined them cut down in their sleep, not—not saving my little sister and sending her off to save the country."

I try to smile, but instead I feel tears sliding down my cheeks. "Blast it," I mutter, and wipe at my face.

"Thank you, Bandit." He rises and wraps me in his arms. "They didn't—" He takes a deep breath. "They didn't do anything to Oriana, did they?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Thank the Maker."

Neither of us feel much like sleeping after that, so we take Absolon to tour the grounds and talk about happy memories we have of the castle until the sun rises and I can tell the servants to pack my things.

Fergus is sad when I go, but he understands. And when I promise to come back, I'm being truthful.

I return to Denerim to see how Arlessa Alfstanna is faring, and how Shianni and the elven guard are coming along in their training. I take the time to spar with Shianni and test how much she's learned— more than I expected, actually—and the elves she recruited cheer her on as I disarm her repeatedly.

"How is your uncle doing with the Alienage?" I ask when we pause for water.

She smiles. "He'll be fine once he gets over the idea of me in charge of our guard. He wants to meet you, by the way."

"Then I should see him before I get bogged down with other things at the palace."

I take the time to introduce myself to Cyrion, who appears cautiously surprised to see me, and then take my leave. A quick walk through the Alienage shows that Vaughan's money is being put to good use; buildings are clean and sturdy, and the orphanage is being renovated. Teams of elves are working to clean and paint the exteriors of the public buildings, and the dwarves I had hoped would help with repairs are laying down paving so that there's a place to walk in the rain. Soon, this will be a perfectly acceptable district.

Maybe those gates can come down.

Back at the palace, Soris is preparing for his move to Lothering, and appears to already be much more assertive. He meets my eyes when I ask what still needs to be done, and thanks me when I offer suggestions. His certainty crumbles, however, when I pass on a message from Levi.

"He hears you might be in the market for a wife and wants you to know he has several cousins in the south."

"I-I am?"

"It certainly would not hurt." I neglect to explain why, and he doesn't ask. The Tabris family is anything but unintelligent. "He told me to tell you women in his family are both pretty _and_ useful, and to read this letter."

He rumples it in his fingers and begins to stutter. "I-I will, your ladyshi—Teyrna...uh."

"Evelyn, Soris," I remind him. "Evelyn."

He sighs. "Will it ever not scare me to call you that?"

"You will get used to it quickly," I assure him. Shianni already has, after all, and technically she _shouldn't_ be calling me by my first name. Thankfully, she has the presence of mind not to do it around easily offended humans.

Alistair celebrates my return by having a private meal with me on the grounds, but is less than pleased to discover that I plan to leave the next morning for Amaranthine.

"Evie, can't you stay for at least a _little_ while? You're making me feel trapped."

I shake my head. "I need to get this over with. And there are recruits waiting for me."

He stabs at his meat vigorously. "You had better stop being a Warden soon. Running a country is _boring._ Other than the fact that the grain silos burnt when Denerim was sacked and half our crops were lost when the darkspawn started spreading, that is." He scowls down at his plate. "You know how famines are. Nobody eats, nobody has fun, and next thing you know everyone's snarling at you to find magical, self-replenishing food stores."

I laugh and take a sip of wine. "Would you rather have the archdemon back?"

His eyes meet mine seriously. "No. Never. I just want someone to be bored _with_ me."

"Hmmm."

"What?" He raises an eyebrow and smiles in that way that will never stop making my pulse race.

"I will make you a promise. When I come back next, I will no longer be the Warden-Commander."

Alistair frowns and begins shaking his head. "No. No, I don't like that."

"...Why not?"

He leans forward over the table and narrows his eyes at me. "What's to stop you from never coming back?"

"You," I smile, and run my hands through his hair.

"Well in that case, I'd better make a memorable impression tonight," he replies, and I pretend my flush can be attributed to the wine.

Alistair keeps me up late and manages to delay my departure in the morning with clever fingers and a convincing tongue, but I tear myself away before lunch and ride out without an entourage, enjoying the peace.

It doesn't last long. I'm surprised that this fact _surprises_ me.

When I arrive, I wish that I had gotten to Vigil's Keep sooner: the place is in flames, and there are darkspawn singing to my blood. The Orlesian Wardens are missing or dead, and I spend the morning bitterly muttering to myself and asking the air whether or not Orlesian Wardens actually _exist_ , or if they're a myth used to lure Fereldans into complacency.

I expect another Ostagar, but there are survivors among the recruits I tested at the keep, an apostate mage who seems useful... and Oghren.

No, there are _three_ dwarves, in fact, and one of them appears intent on blowing up what is left of the Vigil. Maker's breath, does all the time underground slowly drive them all _mad_?

There is a brighter side to the attack: I'm able to consider it both a test and an initiation, and once I manage to retake the keep I put all of my survivors through the Joining. Including Anders, the apostate mage. The seneschal tells me that is a risk, but I know enough about blood magic now to recognize that he's not, in fact, a maleficar, as his Templar captors were insisting.

Whether or not he really killed them is irrelevant. Daveth had been a thief, and had he survived the Joining would have probably made an excellent Warden, assuming he could have been convinced to keep his hands to himself. I'm not planning on recruiting Templars, so I find it unlikely that Anders will turn against the order.

More of them survive than I expected given my own Joining, and soon I have more Wardens than were present to end the Blight. I spend the first few days training them when not in meetings with the seneschal, and soon grow accustomed to being absurdly busy. This is much better than wearing gowns and reading books; thankfully, I have little doubt that I'll be able to keep myself as busy as the Queen of Ferelden.

But the situation in Amaranthine soon reveals itself to be more convoluted than I'm prepared for, and I can see my time with Alistair being eaten away. My Orlesian Wardens are still missing, _talking_ darkspawn are attacking the arling, and Amaranthine City is failing in the post-war depression. Even worse, the Vigil is collapsing around us.

I manage to keep my head for the first few days by reminding myself that this is _extraordinary_ practice for a future ruler of a nation, but this only works for so long. When Anders catches me hurling rocks off the top of the battlements and cursing in the middle of the night, I'm forced to admit that I won't be able to solve every problem myself and remain sane. But this does nothing to lessen the miasma of them forming around me, and I can feel my list growing again.

As though I'm the only person in Thedas who can solve these problems.

That can't be true. Seneschal Varel would be more than capable guiding a different Warden- Commander... but it would be cruel to throw a non-noble to the banns here, who are quickly proving themselves both ruthless and wolflike in their skulking and scheming. I'm sure there's a noble-bred Orlesian among the Wardens who would do just fine, but putting a foreigner in charge of the arling would cause even more problems. In any case, Orlesian Wardens appeared incapable of surviving a transfer to Ferelden. I'd pass the torch on only to be written a week later and told my successor had suffocated in a sheet on laundry day.

When I pass my reservations on to Alistair, he calls me unkind, but the way his handwriting becomes unsteady as he chastises me suggests that he laughed while he wrote his reply. This accomplishes two things: first, I find myself in much better spirits; second, I realize that I haven't eaten all day.

Maker's breath. Before leaving Highever, I couldn't cook for myself. Now I've learned how to cook, but can't seem to remember to _eat_. I'd be hopeless on my own.

I'm in the kitchens helping myself to a late dinner and preparing to lose more sleep over Amaranthine's problems when the captain of the guard sidles up to me. "Warden-Commander?"

I look up from my ale and tuck Alistair's letter into a gauntlet. "Yes?"

"I've just been—well, it appears that someone slipped through the cracks when the Vigil was attacked, and I've just now been informed we have a prisoner in our dungeon."

I blink. "We do? How long has he been down there?"

"Ah... several weeks. I'm told the Orlesians put him there before they went missing."

The Orlesians; of course. "Please tell me someone has been _feeding_ him," I mutter, and scowl when I'm told by the captain that he "rightly does not know." He asks me what I wish done with him and appears surprised when I tell him to take me to our dungeons.

"With no Orlesians left to tell me what he has done, it will be impossible to make a decision without _meeting_ the man," I tell the captain as we leave the great hall. The shrug he gives me in return would have made me suspicious of the previous arl's scruples even had I _not_ known he was Rendon Howe. I wish I'd known how singular my parents were among nobles while they were still alive for me to appreciate their lessons.

My jailor, at least, appears to be a decent human being, and I find my captive fed, clothed, and exceptionally angry. He is tall, dark, and well-built, with the look of a man who has been on the road for months. I envy him instantly.

The jailor nearly dies of fear when he realizes he's in the same room with the Hero of Ferelden, but my captive appears less than impressed, which makes me happy. He's clearly a sensible man, which will make figuring out why he's here much easier.

"He won't talk to me, Warden-Commander," the jailor says, scuffing his boots and rubbing at his neck. "Took four Wardens to bring him in when they caught him skulking about at night, but we've no clue why he's here or what he was after."

"Warden-Commander, is it?" comes a low voice from the cell. "Aren't you a little short for a legend? Where is the lightning? Has Andraste taken the night off from singing to announce your arrival?"

"Leave us," I tell the jailor and my captain, and they have the good sense to obey me. Once we're alone in the dungeon, I step closer to the bars. "Since you know who I am, it is only fair to tell me your name."

"Come in here. Maybe I will."

When I enter his cell he rises and steps close, staring down at me with dark, wrathful eyes. His muscles are tense, his eyes narrow, and even the way he breathes is an attempt to intimidate me. When I smile at him, a vein at his temple begins to throb.

A man who doesn't like it when others refuse to take him seriously, then. I like him already. He stares down at me, and I up at him, and vague memories of my childhood ripple to the surface. A boy too young to play with my brother, which meant that he was too intent on impressing him to pay any mind to me. A boy with dark hair and a distinctive, hooked nose just like his father....

When my eyes widen, his narrow. _I know this man_. I study his dirty, stubble-covered face intently as he continues looming. All of Amaranthine's problems seem suddenly pleasant in comparison to the reality of the man before me.

"Maker's breath," I groan. "Nate? Nathaniel Howe?"

"Yes," he growls. "Nathaniel, the son of the man you murdered and heir to the lands you seized."

He doesn't expect me to smile. I _shouldn't_ have, because he surges forward with a shout, attempting to wrap his fingers around my neck. But he's been trapped in a cell for weeks on a poor diet, and I've just spent the last year fighting for my life. Seconds later I've upset his balance and slammed him into the bars, twisting his arms behind his back and pinning a dagger to the base of his neck.

The clang of his impact echoes up the stairs, and the jailor and guard captain run to rejoin us.

"This, captain," I pant over Nathaniel's shoulder, "is the son of Rendon Howe, and he is here for me."

"We can hang him in the morning, Commander," the captain replies, and then frowns when I shake my head.

"No. We are going to return his things to him and let him out."

"What?" asks the captain.

"W-What?" stammers the jailor.

Nathaniel laughs, and I press him more forcefully into the bars. "Set me free, and I will not stop until I have killed you."

"I never said I was going to set you free."

When Nathaniel comes to several hours later, newly a Warden, and begins pacing the halls of the keep that was once his, cataloging every little difference and rubbing at his temples, I watch from a balcony, mind racing. The seneschal has nearly lost his voice shouting at me for this decision, telling me that this is an infinitely larger risk than Anders. But all I see as I stare at my newest would-be assassin is a man who was once a good boy... and a potential solution to my overarching problem.

Nathaniel is a noble who is both familiar with the arling and known by the banns of Amaranthine. I never knew him well growing up, but Teagan liked him well enough. True, I killed his father, and true, he hates me for it, but that's no reason to keep him from running a region that is his by _blood_. Unless his desire for vengeance outmatches what I suspect are signs of him being a decent person, we may both benefit from his induction. He can reclaim his lands, and I can turn the order over to a Warden- Commander who will be able to hold his own in Amaranthine.

Anders meets Nathaniel at breakfast and promptly pulls me aside to tell me I've made a mistake.

"You know that look he was giving you all morning? That's the same look the Templars were giving me when I was overnighting in that nice little cell of yours."

When I shrug, he shakes his head. "You're mad, aren't you? That's the only answer for how you manage to be _you_."

Alistair has a parallel opinion to Anders, which leads to a week-long fight via letters about "taking unnecessary risks" which nearly kills our poor courier. And the entire time Nathaniel watches, and glares, and grows increasingly confused by my determination to be pleasant.

Asking in Amaranthine provides Nathaniel's recent history: he was abroad in the Free Marches for the past several years, and returned to find his lands taken and his father dead. He wasn't here to see his father become the viper that nearly poisoned Ferelden. A plan forms in my head, which relies on several assumptions: Nathaniel will be willing to accept the truth of what really happened; Nathaniel will want to right his father's wrongs; and Nathaniel is a grown version of the decent boy he was before he left rather than a younger copy of his sadistic father.

A large risk to take, but my conversations with Duncan before his death have left me to believe that the Wardens often take such risks, and Riordan made it sound as though the Joining literally bonds Wardens together, making it impossible for them to be anything else. So he won't run away, then.

Assuming he doesn't kill me, my plan will likely work.

 

_Am I supposed to be reassured by this_? Alistair asks in his next letter.

_It would be nice,_ I reply the next morning.

 

Nathaniel paces the Vigil like a wild creature for weeks, and I do what I can to return his home to him without handing over my title. I begin by giving him his own rooms back, and allowing him to select which art to hang in the great hall when I catch him shaking his head and muttering about one of the paintings. He scoffs at first, and bristles each time I approach him for conversation, but I think of Sten and Zevran and neither let my guard down nor cease attempting to be friendly.

In the end, it isn't me that causes him to be willing to change his mind, but his sister. I bring Nathaniel in with Anders and Oghren to Amaranthine to speak to the Merchant's Guild, and we stumble into her at the market. We stand a polite distance away and let Anders shop for reagents, and I chat with the dwarf while I watch Nathaniel's shoulders tighten, then sag.

 

_This is what family does, pup. We tear open each other's weaknesses and then hold each other up until we're stronger for it._ He can't stand the truth from an enemy, but he trusts his sister, and when she substantiates my claim, I see his walls collapse at once, leaving him reeling and uncertain.

The journey back to the Vigil from Amaranthine is awkward, to say the least. He walks beside me and nearly initiates conversation several times, then swallows his own words and kicks at errant stones along the path. It reminds me of the day Zevran decided to ask if I intended to "keep" him after the Blight's end.

"Ask," I sigh at last, and see his shoulder twitch out of the corner of my eye.

"He really... he really killed your entire family, didn't he?"

I nod. "Everyone except my elder brother, who was not at the castle. Even my nephew, who was six."

"Andraste's blood," he mutters.

"He did this to me with my family sword when we were reunited," I add, and then show him the scar on my palm.

We walk in silence for several minutes before Nathaniel finds his voice again. "He wasn't always like that," he insists.

"I am sure that is true," I admit. "After all, he was friends with my father. But the man whose life I ended destroyed my family and took my lands. It was fair."

"Yes," he growls, "and now you've destroyed mine's reputation and taken _my_ lands."

"Perhaps," I reply.

"Perhaps?"

I shouldn't say it, and so of course I do. "Your _father_ destroyed your family's reputation."

Nathaniel storms away the instant we re-enter the Vigil, and I return to my office and sort through the endless letters pouring in from the Wardens and freeholders. I turn my attention back to Amaranthine and let Nathaniel think for a while.

He's a good man, who loves his sister and his lands. I have a stack of letters in my hand asking for aid in the city. Something about smugglers, according to the angry letters from the guard and the desperate pleas from the local merchants. Smugglers, poison, blocked trade routes. Maker.

I'm a Warden, but I'm also an arlessa. I take Oghren, Nathaniel, and Anders into Amaranthine city and spend the next week wiping out the smuggling ring, getting their goods off the streets, and putting the City Watch at ease. The citizens of Amaranthine need to trust their new rulers. This is something I should have done at the _outset_ rather than panicking about the Vigil.

It also has one other useful side-effect: Nathaniel refrains from glaring at me a single time the night we finally return. After I've eaten, Anders forces me to hold still so he can heal a wrenched muscle in my back, and then I ignore the way both of them grumble that I should "drink and play cards with them for once" and head off to my office to write more letters and try and figure out where to go from here.

I'll need to speak to the seneschal. I have been ignoring the nobles I oversee for too long, and I'll need to gain their trust if we are to turn Amaranthine around....

I've nearly fallen asleep at my desk when a knock sounds at the door and Nathaniel lets himself into the room.

"I'm listening, Evelyn," he says simply, and falls into the chair across from mine.

I point at a pile of papers full of requests that still need seen to. "Help me save Amaranthine, and I will give it back to you."

He raises an eyebrow. "You can do that?"

"Amaranthine belongs to the Wardens. You are part of the order now, and I have no wish to remain in charge." When he hears this, his eyes light up, and he almost smiles. "You can fight, and lead, you know the area, and you are not Orlesian." So you'll _survive_ , I add silently.

"And where will you go, Commander?"

"Denerim," I admit, and allow him to draw his own conclusions. "Close enough to provide guidance if needed."

Nathaniel crosses his arms and begins thinking like a noble, which is heartening to see. "How will the rest of the order feel about putting someone so new in charge?"

"They will have no say," I reply. And if they try, I'll be more than slightly annoyed. "Alistair and I stopped the Blight as junior members, so rank is clearly of nominal importance. I will travel to Weisshaupt itself and vouch for you, if I must."

Nathaniel laughs at this. Odd that he thinks I'm _joking_. "And if I betray you?"

He's teasing; when I smile, he grins back. But we both understand that my reply is serious. "Then I throw you in your own dungeon, take back over, and let you rot to death."

He leans back in his chair. "And if I kill you?"

This _isn't_ a tease. But it's also not quite a threat, and so I don't bristle. "You may certainly try. But that would prove Ferelden right about the Howes."

He tells me that he'll think about it, though we both know what his answer will be. Once he's left my office, I turn for my rooms and begin packing. I will need to send letters to Denerim, and the Orlesian Wardens, and have a long talk with the seneschal, but it doesn't matter, because I've almost crossed another item off my list. With Nathaniel in charge, I can return to Denerim and marry Alistair. The Wardens will be rebuilt because he'll want to undo all the wrongs his father committed, and I'll be able to rule beside the man I love and protect the country and the people I nearly gave my life to save.

I sit on the edge of my bed and fall over backward, looking up at the stone ceiling. I'd expected that it would be harder. I'm used to everything going wrong and fighting me tooth and nail. But this is a familiar feeling, too; events used to unfold like this before the Blight, and before Howe. Odd, that I would have forgotten.

No, not odd. Amazing, how some problems _do_ just solve themselves.


	28. Those Who Wait

"Your Majesties, it's really time to get dressed now." Niamh's hands are on her hips. That bodes poorly for my morning.

Alistair wipes sweat from his brow and thrusts at me again with his longsword. I duck under the blow and knock him off-balance with a kick to the chest. Before he can fall, I grab his hand in mine and steady us both. "You should listen to her. I have no desire to be yelled at before breakfast."

"Aw, Evie, but I'm having fun!" He sheaths his sword and turns toward my handmaiden. "Fine, fine. We're coming in. Just... feed us, okay?"

"Yes, your Majesty." She bows, then retreats, leaving us alone in the inner courtyard. Guards are stationed at every door, yes, but this is the place no one is allowed to go save the king, queen, and the only maid in Ferelden not terrified of me. Nearly a year, and I'm still unsure whether Fergus sent her my way as a blessing or a joke. She can go toe-to-toe with me on stubbornness, and is five years my junior. The fact that I love her dearly gives Alistair no small amount of amusement.

I remove my gauntlets and begin helping Alistair out of his armor before he can ask. He holds his arms out and turns obediently, grumbling all the while. "Can't we ever take a day off? Sleep in? Cancel meetings?"

"Today I would consider it if my first audience was with someone other than a Grey Warden emissary from Weisshaupt."

"Oh, wonderful." Alistair scowls. "They're taking you away again, aren't they?"

I shake my head. "They know better. You and I may be Wardens by blood, but it would be too dangerous to keep us in the order. That being said, I suspect they wish to chastise me for promoting Nathaniel without asking first. Word must have made it to the Anderfels by now."

"Yes, because promoting the son of your mortal enemy is obviously a sign of favoritism and not an indication that he's pretty bloody skilled at what he does."

"Maybe I should have you hold the audience," I reply.

"What? Maker, _no_! I have to be at the grand opening of the barracks for the elven guard so there’s an excuse for half of Denerim’s armed forces to come along. Who knows what the dissenters we’ve been dealing with will try this time." He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair.

"You sound like you need breakfast."

"You always say that when I grumble about running a country."

"And it usually solves the problem." I take him by the hand and lead him into the castle proper, where a bored guard straightens with a start as we enter the hall. "We are done sparring for the day," I tell him. "You can go elsewhere."

"You know they want to watch," Alistair muses as we continue down the hall. "Why do you never let anyone see us fight?"

"Because the last thing I want is the castle staff seeing me lose to you."

"Oh, I get it. It's fine for me to be sent sprawling in front of your crazy sodding handmaiden, but if you so much as lose your balance the kingdom is doomed, is that it?"

"Yes, that is exactly it. If I show weakness in front of Niamh, she will sew me into my gown and sell my mare within the day."

"Hmmm. And I don't want you sewn into your gown." He squeezes my hand, and I laugh happily.

"I thought that would change your mind."

While Alistair and I dine, Niamh and several other servants busy themselves selecting our outfits for the day. Normally I at least attempt to have some input, but my handmaiden knows we have important guests today, and so the gown she selects is—naturally, this woman must be trying to give me an apoplexy—blue.

Alistair is dragged from our breakfast room to go get dressed, and Niamh begins handing me pieces of my outfit and laughing while I complain. "Blue, Niamh? Always _blue_ on days when I need to be cheerful."

She tugs at the laces on the back of my dress and smiles over my shoulder. "You look so _good_ in blue, milady."

I frown at her in the mirror. "I have an idea. You put on the gown and pretend to be me for the day. With your hair back, you are a passable Cousland." The old Highever families all had a look to them. It never occurred to me when I lived there that the old common families would, as well, but she's unmistakably from my home town.

She snorts. "I'd rather change your linens than run the country, and you can't wash to save a life. You're staying in that dress."

And so I do. I stay in the gown, and smile, and head into the great hall to hold my first audience of the day. I expect that it will be the Warden, but the woman who walks toward me is slender, and has familiar red hair and is wearing a pair of ridiculous—no, I _gave_ her those—shoes.

I want to cry.

"Your Majesty." She bows, and meets my eyes with a smile. "I hope you don't mind me sneaking in front of the other guests. I wanted to see you first because... well, I couldn't wait any longer."

"If you had not run off in the middle of the night," I reply, "you would not have had to do any sneaking at all." Her face clouds, and I shake my head. "Ignore me, Lel. You know how well I...." I trail off, and her smile returns.

"I was... I hear the court is looking for a good minstrel." She glances down at her hands uncertainly. "I am told I come very highly recommended."

"Indeed you do." An audience. Andraste’s blood. I want to leap down and hug her, but there are people  _watching_. I'll invite her to have lunch with me. And then strangle her.

"Then should I speak to the staff about staying on?"

"Please do. And tell them you will be eating with me this afternoon."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

_Maker_ , but that sounds strange coming from someone I know from before. I watch Leliana leave and try to ignore the sensation that I need to grab my daggers and... fight dragons, or werewolves. But no, next is the emissary from the Anderfels.

An emissary who speaks fluent Orlesian, but just enough Fereldan to "order" me "a stunning tomorrow." I'm surprised to discover a lack of members of my staff who speak Orlesian, given how recently we freed ourselves from the Empire’s clutches, and send for Leliana with a bemused sigh. She has Andraste’s own timing.

My advisors go into fits over my using a "stranger" as an interpreter, but after I remind them that the woman before them helped me stop the Blight and this is technically a Grey Warden matter, we're allowed to adjourn to a small--albeit heavily guarded--parlor.

We settle down into chairs and exchange an excruciating amount of small-talk via Leliana. How was his journey? Very interesting, and the mountains are so pretty this time of year. By the way, the country seems to be recovering admirably, well, you are very kind to say so. Leliana's smile widens as she watches me grow progressively more frustrated, but the emissary seems to be in no rush whatsoever.

"So," I ask at last, interrupting his dissection of the flavors of the tea he was just served, "do you come with a message from the First Warden?"

He speaks at great length to Leliana, and I watch her smile fade. "He says they were hoping you would go back with him and give an account of the Blight and the archdemon for their records. Well, no. Oh, dear, 'hope' isn't at all the word he used."

"...You do realize that you are asking me to abandon my country to go regale the Wardens with a good story? Let me _write_ the tale."

The emissary shakes his head. "This is a _tradition_ that dates back to the rise of Dumat and the First Blight."

I look to Leliana. "In that case, allow me to pack my things!"

"I'm... not passing that one along, Evie," she chides, and I sigh and bury my head in my hands.

"Tell... whatever his name is, that he is welcome to remain as long as he desires." I drain my tea and ask one of the servants to summon Leith. "A room will be made up for him... within the hour," because I'm not one to pass up an opportunity for revenge, "but I do not have an answer for him."

Leliana shakes her head. "What, are you planning on delaying him with creature comforts?"

"Yes, I am." And considering the length of his journey and the general state of the Anderfels, I'm certain that this will buy me some time. "Do you have a better idea?"

"Well... no...."

Leith arrives seconds after the message was passed on and the emissary agreed to remain, looking tired and harried. But he sees to my request without protest, and I prepare myself for more grumbling tonight from Alistair that I'm killing our chamberlain. He had no issue butting heads with me when I was merely the Hero of Ferelden, but now that I'm queen he's ceased his underhanded attacks completely.

Eventually, I'm sure that I will, as well. Though I still hope that he'll rediscover his spine; I never thought I would _miss_ fighting with the man.

They stand when I rise to leave the room, and I smile at the emissary as I escape back into the hall.

I would have much preferred to be yelled at about Warden-Commander Nathaniel Howe. But this is a far greater problem. Of the two Wardens that survived Ferelden's Blight, I'm the only one that saw the events unfold. I can't send anyone else to tell the story, and they have no one else to ask.

And the one person that they _can_ ask won't be telling the truth. I spend the rest of the day certain that Alistair is going to attempt to murder me when he learns what the emissary wanted, and I'm not disappointed. That night in our rooms, he begins pacing angrily as soon as Weisshaupt is mentioned.

"They want you to leave for the sodding Anderfels to tell them a story?" I nod.

"I was as pleased as you are. I _am_ as pleased as you are."

"You're not going." He whirls on me. "You're _not_." When I agree, he blinks. "Wait, you're not?"

"Of course not! Do you have any idea how long that journey would take? I would be gone for nearly a year, _if_ it went well."

Alistair groans. "Don't tell me this."

"Did I not just say that I was staying here?"

"Yes, but I can't shake the feeling that you're wrong." He sinks down onto the bed beside me. "And what would you tell them, in any case?"

"That Riordan killed the archdemon. I assume they will want to build a statue, or have his urn transferred to the Fortress."

"Even though it was really Loghain?" Alistair asks quietly, and I clench my fingers into the bedding. He knows.

...Of _course_ he knows. He is by no means a fool. "Yes." As soon as I say the word, I feel lighter.

He takes a deep breath. "I never... did thank you for lying about that, did I."

"Please, don't." Maker, I can still hear the sound Loghain made when he hit the ground below the fort.

Alistair wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my hair. "Only _you_ would manage to rewrite history, you know."

"...I did it for you."

He nods. "I figured it out while you were gone in the south, you know. Something about how you acted those days right after the battle seemed... off. If Riordan had _really_ done it, you would have been happier. But every time it was brought up, you flinched, and—Maker, but I'm a lucky man. You wouldn't lie for just anyone."

"True," I smile.

"No, really." He falls back on the bed and crosses his arms behind his head. "One of my favorite memories of you is the night we were at that dinner at Redcliffe and you made Eamon put everyone at the high table with us. Do you remember what you said when I asked you what you were doing?"

"No."

"‘Making a scene.’" He mimics my voice, and I hit him on the shoulder. "No, stop that and listen to me. I realized right then how _honest_ you are, and how wonderful that can be. And sometimes it’s awful, too, but it makes me trust you—anyway, that’s the exact moment I realized I loved you."

I feel my cheeks flush and laugh. "How romantic."

"You’ll love this one, then." He grins at me and pulls me down beside him. "When I figured out that you lied about Loghain, it occurred to me that you did something that was _hard_ for you so that I wouldn’t have to see the man I hate redeemed. And I figured that if you did that, you really _did_ love me, and that’s why I just wanted you to come home."

"...So you love me because I kicked the Hero of River Dane off a tower and then lied about who killed the archdemon?"

"No, stop that. I love you because you’re amazing. Now come here." He snuggles against me, pressing gentle kisses into my hair. "You’re happy, right?" he asks eventually, and I lift my head to stare at him curiously.

"Of course I am. Should I not be?"

He shrugs. "I think about this a lot when we’re sparring. I know you said a year ago that you wanted kids, and... I don’t know. Recently I’ve been dreaming about watching you teach a little girl how to use her knives."

I rest my head against his shoulder. "Is this your polite way of telling me to steal a child?"

"Maker, _no_. I just was wondering how your list was going. We haven’t talked about this since you were a Warden-Commander."

I frown. "I spoke to the mages. Short of some rather terrifying blood magic, there is no way for you and me to have a child."

Alistair sighs. "Don’t tell me you’re giving up."

"Certainly not!" I nip at his shoulder. "I was just focusing on getting our country stabilized."

"Obtaining an heir doesn’t count?"

"...Do _you_ want kids?"

"I... yes," he admits at last. "I want to see you raise them. And I want to see _me_ raise them, and... I don’t know. I want you to be happy, and I think having a child would make me happy, even if it wasn’t mine. I don’t care about bloodlines, you know that."

"I do," I reply. I'm a very lucky woman.

"Well, then, all you have to do is fake a pregnancy, adopt a child, and prosper! Easy, right?"

"Oh, naturally," I grumble, and pull the covers over my head. "Queens fake pregnancies all the time."

"I have faith in you. Niamh can help you stuff your gowns with pillows of increasing size!"

"...Alistair, stop trying to help and go to sleep."

He wraps his arms around me and snuggles against my chest with a sigh, and I listen to him slide progressively deeper into sleep while my mind whirls in endless circles.

One thing left on the list. And, now that I know it will benefit us both, I'm _determined_ to accomplish it.

Though life seems determined to distract me from any and all personal goals. The only person whose mood does not progressively sour over the following week is Leliana. Nathaniel arrives at Denerim of his own accord to meet our Warden guest, but their personalities clash almost instantly, and both of them soon progress to sulking through the castle and distracting me from matters of state with matters of my old order. Alistair continues to regard the emissary with suspicion, the emissary becomes increasingly impatient to hear my answer, and even Niamh is out of sorts. My week reaches its low point when she snaps at Absolon after he breaks out of the kennels to find me. I learn from a panicked guard that he has her backed into a corner and is growling, and I have to cut a meeting short with Teagan and Nathaniel to go rescue them both.

"Honestly, Niamh!" I frown at her as Absolon whines apologetically at my feet. "Next time just let him  _find_ me so no one loses a hand!"

The last thing I expect is for her to burst into tears. I stand in the hall, utterly dumbfounded, as she slides down a wall and onto the floor with great, heaving sobs. Absolon whines at her and trots over, resting his head in her lap, and she clutches him to her and continues crying.

Wonderful. I've made my handmaiden hysterical. What is it Shianni says? _Andraste's ass._

I manage to pull her into a parlor and dismiss the guards, but when she shows no sign of stopping crying I send Absolon after Leliana, completely at a loss. Alone, I have no idea how to placate a crying person, but together, the two of us manage to calm her down.

"What did I do?" I ask, sitting beside her on a sofa, and she laughs thickly.

"N-not you, your Majesty. I'm just having a bad week."

I frown. "Is something wrong here? Has Leith been giving you trouble?" I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he decided to torment my staff since I'm now too grand to attack directly.

Niamh shakes her head. "No, I—" She looks back and forth between us. "Can't believe I'm crying in front of the queen."

"Nonsense," I scowl. "I only look regal because you put me into this dress this morning." When she giggles, I smile. "I have never seen you this upset. It worries me."

She sighs. "I don't have anyone to tell about this, so I might as well.... I'm with child," Niamh says in a rush.

Leliana and I look at each other. Niamh is unmarried, which means.... "Do you know who the father is?"

She nods miserably. "You'll never believe me."

"Try me," I retort.

"General Teagan."

Leliana and I stare at one another again, and she shakes her head. "That man!"

"Teagan has been my friend for ages, Niamh." When her eyes widen, I elaborate: "I believe you. Have you told him?"

She shakes her head. "He's getting married in a week! I can't! He'll never claim an heir from me, and... you'll have to send me away. I can't be your handmaiden carrying an unclaimed bastard, and—the thought of getting rid of it... _hurts_!"

I realize with a sinking feeling how terrified Alistair's mother must have felt when she realized she was with child, and wonder again at Eamon's reasoning for taking him in, but not Goldanna. I'm not about to allow one of my staff—or her family—to suffer like that.

" _Niamh_." She looks at me with wide eyes. "Stop it. I will not cut you loose simply because you have a good eye. Teagan has imposed himself on many a weaker woman." When she winces, I wish I'd phrased it differently.

"I can't raise this child _and_ be your handmaiden! I'll have no time! And my family, I-I'm the only one supporting us right now. Oh, Maker, this is a nightmare." She dissolves into tears again, and Leliana and I hug her from each side. My mind is working furiously.

She could pass as a Cousland. She doesn't want this child. And I want a child more desperately than I can express. But Ferelden deserves a Theirin heir. Or, at the very least, an heir they _believe_ to be Theirin. And the Grey Wardens of the Anderfels would be more than happy to aid in the ruse if it meant that no Grey Warden secrets were made public. If I remain childless for much longer, people will start asking _why_.

I force my voice to remain light as I speak. "What if you could have the child without damaging your reputation, and could find an adoptive parent?"

Niamh sighs. "Sure, that sounds lovely, and impossible, too. In a month or two, everyone's going to be able to tell."

Leliana runs a hand over her hair. "Hush! You don't give your queen enough credit. She can make anything work. I have seen her do it."

My handmaiden wipes at her eyes. "Save Ferelden, raise elves to the nobility, tear dresses nearly daily. And now you're supposed to solve your silly maid's problems?"

I nod. "Why not? We both stand to benefit from this. I will be honest."

She meets my eyes, and I'm pleased to find that this admission has put her at ease. People don't expect altruism from the nobility, but mention mutual gain and they're instantly trusting. "What do we do, then?"

Alistair is going to kill me.

"I believe the three of us should travel to Weisshaupt as soon as possible. After we have been on the road for a few weeks, I will send word back to Denerim that I am with child. We will return in a year, and no one will be the wiser."

Niamh's eyes widen. "Y-you mean—what? But I am... this is insane!"

I shake my head. "We could be cousins, Niamh. And Teagan has my eye and hair color. No one will be able to tell."

"So you want my bastard child as your heir?"

"Yes. Alistair and I are both barren. If I am to have a child... it will not be mine, regardless." Honestly, there are worse choices. It would be half-Guerrin. I'll just need to make sure no marriages with the family occur when the child is of age, though given Eamon’s continued shunning of Isolde and Teagan’s pending marriage to a commoner, and a _blacksmith_ , that seems easy enough.

She runs her hands over her hair and takes a deep breath. "I'd be a fool to say no, but... I don't think I could stay on and watch you raise... even though I don't—"

"Niamh, you are welcome anywhere. I can send you to the Cousland estate in Denerim, or back to Highever to work for my brother and be nearer your family, if you do not wish to remain. I will miss you, but I would rather... offer you this than... " Maker, I feel like some sort of beast. I need to make sure that she _wants_ to do this. "But if you say no, I will keep you on regardless, no matter what you decide to do about the child. I hardly care what people _say_."

She laughs. "Maker, milady. I don't want to raise this child alone. And I'd hate myself forever if I... got rid of it knowing it could be a prince or princess. I'll do it. I will. And I won't tell a soul, and you won't either, because if anyone finds out it would ruin us _both_."

Leliana smiles. "Oh, I can’t wait! She will be an excellent mother, Niamh. You should have seen her tending to Alistair's wounds on the road!"

"Lel," I scowl. When she falls silent, I continue: "Niamh, begin packing our things. I will find our Anders Warden and tell him we will leave tomorrow."

"And what about Alistair?" Leliana asks.

"I will go speak with him now," I reply, and force my nervousness away.

Leliana leaves with Niamh to help her get everything ready, and I spend a few moments pacing the room, heart pounding. So much to plan, and so little time. But the final thing on my list is about to be crossed off, and all I had to do was wait patiently for the solution to show itself. Alistair was right, after all, when he said that I didn't need to do everything myself. He'll run Ferelden while I'm away, and when I return we'll both be able to have the one thing we both so desperately want.

_Family_.

I take the halls at a run and burst through the door to his study in a most unladylike fashion, preparing to share the news. When he looks up, he smiles, and I know down to my bones that I'll love this man until the day we die together in the darkness.


	29. Epilogue

No matter how many years I spend in Denerim, visiting Highever and Castle Cousland feels like coming home. Even here, at the Grey Warden memorial which was built three years into my reign, something about the scene feels safe and familiar. Maybe it's the air.

"Bryce! Cailan!" I consider putting my hands to my mouth to amplify the shout, but as soon as I've called for them I hear giggling from behind Duncan’s legs. I follow the sound and discover my two boys have pinned their father to the stone.

"Mother, we found a _darkspawn_!" Cailan shouts from his perch on Alistair’s chest.

I cross my arms. "Oh, did you? Well, that explains a lot." When Alistair scowls at me, I continue. "What kind is he? Do you remember?"

"A... " Bryce looks down at Alistair’s face. "A dad."

" _Hurlock_ ," Cailan retorts. "Hurlocks come from humans."

Alistair gathers his strength and lifts all three of them from the ground. Bryce and Cailan cling to his sides, laughing wildly, before continuing their argument.

"I don’t _care_ , Cay," Bryce sighs. "The Blight’s over!"

"What if another Blight happens?" Alistair asks, ruffling Bryce’s dark brown hair.

" _Daaad_ , Blights never happen that close together! It won’t be my problem."

"Leliana says that people thinking like that almost destroyed Ferelden," Cailan shouts. "In war, victory, in peace, _vigilance!"_

"I don’t have to be vigilant. I’m the next king. I’m oldest!"

"Wynne says they can make _me_ king instead if you don’t get better at your lessons!"

"Can _not_!"

"Dearest," Alistair muses, "how _did_ we end up with such energetic boys? And did you _teach_ them the foot-to-the-kidneys thing, or is that just a family trait of yours?"

The twins instantly cease struggling and ask to be let down. When Alistair obliges, they give him quick hugs around the neck before walking beside us toward the memorial’s exit.

"I don’t want to be king, anyway," Cailan announces. "I want to be a Grey Warden!"

Alistair and I meet each other’s eyes, and I see the same brief flicker of panic on his face as I feel on mine when I imagine my son with the Joining chalice in his hands. "Well," I say diplomatically, "You will have to talk to the Warden-Commander." When he's older. Much, much older.

"I tried, mother, but he won’t answer my letters!"

Alistair blinks. "...What?"

"I wrote him three times already! Wynne said it was a good way to practice my rhe--rhi--"

" _Rhetoric_ ," Bryce mutters, and Cailan nods.

"Did she now," I groan, resisting the urge to rub at my temples. Wynne and Leliana have no idea what it takes to become a Warden. Of course they'd encourage our sons to follow in their parents’ footsteps.

"Yeah, but he never answers. Isn’t that rude?"

"Cailan, you’re too young to be a Warden," Alistair frowns, "and the Warden-Commander is a very busy man."

"But when he visits he plays knights with us," Bryce replies.

"...True," I admit. That remains one of my more confusing memories. It may be the only time I've ever seen Nate smile.

Cailan smacks me in the back suddenly, shrieks "Bandit!" and bolts for Riordan’s statue. Bryce giggles and runs after him, and I cross my arms.

"Looks like we should stay a while longer," I muse to Alistair.

"Dearest, Fergus said supper was at six. We’ll be late, and his wife is already nervous _enough_ over hosting the Royal Family."

"Yes," I say with a nod, "but if we bring the boys back with this much energy they might destroy the castle."

"...Point."

"Dad, be a knight with us!" Bryce shouts from his hiding spot.

"I want to be a knight!" I call after him.

"Mothers are always bandits! It’s the rules!" Cailan calls back, and Alistair begins laughing.

"Sorry, pup. You heard the boys. Better run, bandit."

Maker’s breath. Some things never change. Queen Evelyn Cousland, Hero of Ferelden... lifelong bandit. As Alistair begins to lead the boys in a charge, I vault a flowerbed and take off at a run.


End file.
